Masquerade
by jenron12
Summary: They can read any emotion and detect almost every lie... but even after 9 years, Cal and Gillian are still hiding from the truth of their own feelings. Can a little friendly prodding finally make them see the light? Set post-series, this is a multi-chapter fic that's both Halloween-centric and more than a little bit fluffy. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story is brought to you by a bunch of lovely ladies on Twitter, who are just as crazy about this show as I am. The idea behind it is a collective one, and I very much hope that I can do everyone's imaginations justice with this. Special shout out to Lysa and Dee for brainstorming with me, to Steph for the original post that brought all this to life, and to Cee & Monika for keeping the ball rolling. You ladies are awesome. :)**

**This will be multi-chapter, but likely not very long. Since it's Halloween-centric, I want to wrap it up soon - or at the very least, get to the "meat" (no pun intended, I swear) of the story by October 31st. And lastly, I'll still be posting updates to my other work-in-progress, so please don't think I've abandoned it. I haven't. This little fic just popped up out of nowhere today and I had to follow where the Muse led. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Emily liked to use the term "chicken," but Cal didn't much care for that one. He preferred "creature of habit," instead, mostly because it didn't make him feel like a giant wanker or an overgrown child. Which he kind of _was_, but still…"chicken" was insulting. As was the smug little laugh she always failed to hide whenever that term came up in conversation. Which was often.

_Really bloody often._

And she was wrong anyway, because he was not _afraid_, he was… patient. He was not _blind_, he was… preoccupied. Big stakes, and all that. It didn't hurt anything to pace himself.

In truth, Cal knew _exactly_ what he was waiting for, thank-you-very-much. He had a plan. And long-term though it might've been, it still counted. His plan was still _sound_. He was ready for whenever the magical "Right Time" fell out of the sky and into his lap, and well… the same could not be said about chickens.

Score one for procrastination.

(Not fear.)

Seven months. Claire died in March… October would soon be finished… and on the grand scheme of things, he decided that seven months was really just a drop in the bucket. A blip on the radar of their long-term relationship. A period of grieving and readjustment; of second chances and new beginnings. Who was he to rush things forward?

Seven months since Claire… four months since his accident… three months since Emily left. Berkley. _California_. Bloody hell, he missed her – _and_ all of her prodding.

It alone (the _incessant_ prodding) was responsible for most of what had happened in the post-car crash days of summer, when one broken wrist, two broken ribs, and a maddening mix of physical therapy visits, doctor visits, and x-rays, had _quite literally_ led Gillian to become his right hand woman. Simply put, Cal hadn't been able to dress himself… shave… cook… or drive (among other things) without someone's help. And since he'd driven _four_ private nurses to the edge of sanity in only five days, Gillian took pity on health care professionals everywhere and volunteered for the job. She'd seen him with his walls down, his shirt off, and his emotional mask temporarily shattered by pain killers and fatigue.

The woman was nothing short of a saint. A beautiful, chocolate-loving, gave-him-hell-whenever-he-needed-it-and-refused-to -take-any-of-his-crap saint. And she smelled good, too. Like vanilla, or strawberries, or vanilla and strawberries. Sweet and familiar, in a way that left him salivating and made him wonder if she _tasted_ just as good.

She'd driven him to countless appointments… worked through lunch and stayed late, just to keep up with their case load. She listened to him whine about boring, repetitive exercises designed to strengthen his muscles, and she forced him to do them, and sometimes – when the days ran late and exhaustion ran high – she even fed him. Literally, fed him. By hand. _Without complaint_.

Granted, he was _somewhat_ less of a pain in the arse while chewing – mostly because he was silent – so it _might've_ been a bit self-serving on her part. But still. It certainly went above and beyond the whole "best friends and business partners" arrangement they'd had for the better part of a decade, and he knew it.

As did she.

_He could tell._

An interesting note? They both rather liked their new arrangement – or at least, they liked _parts_ of it. Companionship and conversation… never coming home to an empty house… those things were aces. Gillian could've done without _his_ grumbling over medical bills, and he could've done without _her_ habit of keeping the thermostat set too high, but they compromised. Give and take, yeah? It was a fifty-fifty arrangement.

Gillian and Cal were happy. Emily was happy. Everybody won.

Scratch that: _Emily_ won. _Everybody_ was _happy_… but _Emily_ won. It was that prodding thing of hers, again. The girl knew how to use it like a weapon, and when she coupled it with those giant, puppy dog eyes, Cal could hardly refuse her anything. And there were only so many times a man could hear the phrase, "Suck it up dad… the woman loves you," via text, email, video chat, and long-distance phone calls before he crumbled. His ingrained, stubborn pride was knocked out cold by the romantic ideals of one Miss Emily Lightman; who would've guessed?

(And incidentally, that bit was not fifty-fifty. It wasn't even a fair fight)

_Still_, though… Cal knew that Emily had a very point. She was the only one in the entire world who had ever heard – in actual words – the truth of his feelings for Gillian. She was invested. Wanted him to be happy. So he let her prod _the hell_ out of him, until he finally gave in and packed a suitcase (with Gillian's help), and temporarily relocated to her place instead. He ate in her kitchen, and rode in her car… watched her telly, and napped on her couch. And it was all very comfortable; it was familiar, and inviting, and _real_.

Gillian's fingers were warm in the morning as she helped him dress, yet cold in the evening as she moved in reverse. Her voice was soothing when she first woke, and she didn't smack the snooze alarm fourteen times like he did, and she didn't even _mind_ making his beans… so long as he didn't grumble too loudly about the fact that she occasionally bought cereal that came with marshmallows. Or prizes.

And her skin was soft as his lips brushed against it – delicate and delicious, in a way that made him want to taste all of her at once. So he breathed her name and let his imagination play with the idea of what it would be like to dip his mouth lower… down the slope of her throat, past the curves of her chest, and beyond. He wanted to linger; to memorize the feel of her against his body. The soft sounds she made as she breathed in total relaxation… lost in sleep, even as he was lost to something entirely different.

Gillian had slept right beside him. In the same bed. For seven nights. They'd both been fully clothed, but still… that counted for something. Didn't it?

He'd kissed her cheek and her forehead and her hand, but always – _always_ – while she was sleeping, and so all prodding aside, he hadn't told Emily about that part. Not a single word, lest she send him a giant bag of feathers and a _beak_ via overnight delivery, just to prove a point.

Deep down, he knew she was right.

Fear… procrastination… the label didn't much matter. Cal knew that he was staring his future square in the eye, and instead of reaching toward it – toward Gillian – he stood still. Bound by habit and routine, and thrown off track by his injuries. He'd grown complacent. Became temporarily willing to settle for "most" of what he wanted, rather than take a leap of faith and try to grasp the brass ring.

On paper, the answer was simple: what Cal Lightman really needed was a good, swift kick in the arse to knock him off his center and inch him toward Gillian _without_ – and this part was key – making it completely obvious. He needed someone who knew how his mind worked… who could circumvent his excuses swiftly and completely. Someone who was willing to be even more stubborn than he was. Someone who could prod him all the way from… oh, _Berkley_ for example… until he finally saw the light.

Because complacency sucked.

And it was time to reach for that ring.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: My mind is blown with the feedback on the last chapter - thank you so much! I'm behind in replying to reviews, but please know how much I appreciate you taking the time to leave your comments. I'm serious. You all made this fangirl's heart extremely happy. **

**As I mentioned in the first chapter, Claire died in March and it's now October. It *is* a Halloween fic, and I'm getting to all the costumes and fluffy goodness - I swear. But first, I wanted to show how Cal and Gillian have gotten to the point at which we see them in chapter one. It's a journey through Cal's way of thinking, I suppose. Don't worry: there's no intentional angst here, because it's not that kind of story, but it needed groundwork. Hence, this chapter. The real fun (and funny) part begins in chapter 3.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

For as stubborn as Cal had been about temporarily moving in with Gillian during his recovery, he bloody _hated_ moving back out. Because in his own home, the days seemed… sluggish. Like they were all thirty six hours long, not twenty four, and he _missed_ her.

He missed her warm fingers against his arm in the morning, and the way she made his tea with just the right mix of honey and lemon without even asking. He missed washing dishes together after dinner, and pretending to share her excitement about the upcoming basketball season, while she patiently listened to all of his stories about West Ham United and why they were – _undoubtedly_ – the best in the league.

And he missed stupid things, too… like carpooling, or the clutter of cosmetics on her bathroom counter, or the fact that even when the thermostat was set to such a degree that he was _certain_ it could melt a grown man's earlobes, somehow her feet would still be absolutely freezing.

Her cold feet on his warm calves… in his palms… even against the back of his thigh on night number two, when she'd slept so fitfully that he'd almost, almost, _almost_ caved and spooned right up against her, to warm her body through direct contact with his. Night number three was much better though, so the impulse joined the ranks of a thousand others that all lived under the heading of "Missed Opportunity."

With the best of intentions, and without any true perception of how things would _actually_ develop, Cal had only planned to stay at Gillian's for a week. Seven days… seven nights…and then homeward bound again, to nurse his wounds with that age old cocktail of silence, tenacity, and Scotch. But then one week bled into two, and then two became three, and nearly a full month had passed before he'd finally deemed himself well enough to leave.

Leave.

Such a cold sounding word, that one.

He left on a rainy Saturday. She drove, while he made inane small talk about the weather, and why he'd always thought that yellow cars were the most obnoxious. _Yes_, he was serious. Of all the things in the _world_ Cal could've told her, "yellow cars" were, apparently, his subject of choice.

_Brilliant_.

The silver lining, though, had been that she laughed. And it wasn't like those smug, gloating, 'you're-not-fooling-anyone' laughs he got from Emily during what he'd not-so-affectionately begun to call Lecture Time, either. No, this one had been tasteful and subdued, which did make him feel a bit better about his idiocy.

Yellow cars.

Bloody hell, he'd shared a bed with the woman for seven straight nights and the best conversation he'd been able to formulate was something along the lines of, "_The color's too cutesy, Gill. Like the paint itself is simultaneously demanding attention, yet being so obnoxious that it wants to disgust you, yeah? Kind of like the way antacid medication comes in blinding pink. Tragic, really. And far too cartoonish."_

How in the world she'd managed not to open up the passenger door and shove him out, he had no idea. Torres would have. So would Loker, or Emily, or Heidi, or anyone else. But not Gillian. Because for whatever reason – and truly, _he did not know the reason_ – she loved him.

He could see that, now.

She _did_ laugh, though – he remembered it clearly. The sound was delicate, and tasteful, and soft, just like she was, and it had come with a smile, too. Just for him. A _genuine_ smile that reached her eyes, and cast her entire face in a beautiful glow, and it made his heart positively ache for reasons that did not involve the rain, or his own idiocy, or the fact that he was moving out of her house, and back into his.

"Always hated the color of mint ice cream, myself," she'd said suddenly. "It's too… green, you know? Reminds me of The Hulk. Seems too aggressive for dessert."

Two peas. One pod. Oh, he was a lucky, lucky, _bloody stubborn_ man.

He remembered that she smiled even wider then – pleased with herself for having rendered him momentarily speechless – and then he felt her right hand land firmly on his left thigh. _Pat, pat._

Rain had sloshed against the wipers and flung water in a dozen directions at once, completely oblivious to the streamlined state of emotion inside Gillian's car. And it was Emily's voice he'd heard in his ear – some sort of subconscious debate about chickens, and the practical difference between fear and patience – and suddenly, he'd felt inclined to agree with her. For the first time in _forever_. Because that word… that single, horrible, all-too-accurate word had been _exactly_ what he felt.

Fear.

Fear of failure, of heartbreak, of having their perfect little bubble burst by the day-to-day pressures of running a business that _thrived_ in the crosshairs of danger and unpredictability. It was hard, yeah? Worthwhile and wonderful, but still… hard.

_Love_ was hard.

Loving _Cal Lightman_ was hard.

But loving Gillian? Now _that_ was easy. But then again… "Loving Gillian" hadn't ever been the bit that worried him. _She_ was the stable one; he was not. _She_ was the good one; he was not. His issues led to _his_ baggage, which led to _their_ problems and _her_ heartbreak. It was an inevitable pattern – and one he desperately wanted to re-write.

So Gillian patted his thigh, as she drove through the rain on the way to his house, where she planned to help him unpack and get settled in again… then make him dinner, and keep him company… then go back to her _own_ house, alone, where she'd sleep in that big bed with her cold feet and her soft skin and her natural beauty and… _oh_, it bore repeating: he definitely wanted to re-write that pattern. In permanent ink. And then tattoo it upon his skin.

(Metaphorically speaking.)

As they'd pulled into his driveway, her patting turned to squeezing, and she gave him a look – not a _word_, but a _look_ – that he actually _heard_, though it shouldn't have been possible. It was part sympathy, as though she understood exactly what he was feeling, and exactly what kind of future he wanted them to have… but also part patience. As if to say she wouldn't rush him. Not in this, and not in anything.

She would wait.

Maybe not forever, but… long enough.

* * *

By July, Cal decided that the best way to avoid being so lonely all the time and avoid confronting his fear-_slash_-patience-_slash_-Chickentastic tendencies, was denial.

Ah, yes… denial. That magical, time-honored concept that anything – anything _at all_ – could be erased simply by refusing to believe they'd ever existed in the first place.

So by August, after he and Gillian had cried and fretted and then cried some more about Emily's departure for California, and the pain in his wrist had settled into an oppressive, ever present ache… when daily video chats and constant text messages began to taper into a more predictable pattern… Cal Lightman had become a veritable master at it. Ask him if the sky was blue, and he would –when his mood allowed – actively argue that it _wasn't_ blue at all. That it was more of a grey, really. Maybe purple or black or even mottled orange, depending on the weather.

Denial was his _bitch_.

(So to speak.)

And don't even get him started on how he handled that question. The one she still sometimes asked, when his defenses were down and his emotions were high. The standard '_What are you waiting for_?' had been tweaked, though, since Emily was way too bloody smart for her own good, and she knew that repetition wasn't likely to win her any favors. Not with Cal. Not with his habit of digging his heels in just that much _harder_ whenever he felt too much outside pressure.

Back in May she'd switched it to, '_Take the leap, dad. Come on. Gillian will catch you. You know she loves you too, right?_' And yes, _he did_ – give him credit for that much. He was stubborn, not blind. In fact, he'd been on his way to the florist when that psychotic woman in the black SUV ran the red light and crumpled the front end of his Prius like discarded newspaper.

Bloody timing. His has always sucked.

The plan had been to purchase flowers, then chocolates, then make some sort of dinner reservation, and then pop off to surprise Gillian in his nicest suit and a coordinating tie, thank-you-very-much… to dance with her, and whisper his affections into her ear, as he fought the urge to devour her with his hands and mouth right there in the middle of the room. Flawed and cheesy though it might have been, it was a plan.

Back in _May_.

But it had been impossible to pull it all off from a hospital bed, while he argued with his doctors and tried to move around too much _('It's broken ribs, Cal, not a hangnail. Lay back down before you damage something else!'), _and he hadn't even bothered to think of a backup plan. Felt too self-conscious to bring up the subject while Gillian was cooking his meals, or doing his laundry, or driving him to physical therapy. He felt like a heel. Like she might feel pressured to jump into a romantic relationship out of pity, rather than because she'd followed her heart.

In July, Emily's tactic changed again. _"She won't wait forever, dad," _she'd reasoned_. "Sooner or later someone else will realize just how fantastic Gillian is, and then _that guy_ will swoop in and knock her off her feet, all because you're too stubborn to realize that she has always loved _you_. Fear, pride, ego, medical history, and occasional stupidity aside. Don't you _get_ that? And do you _honestly_ think she would still be by your side if she didn't love you just as much as you love her?"_

That one had backfired, though.

In true Lightman style, Cal had paid so much attention to what Emily _said_ – to the actual _words_ she chose – that he started to dissect every syllable, and every sentence, and every possible implication. Someone else. She'd used the phrase "someone else," and it got stuck in his brain like some sort of virus, which then ate away at his logic until the self-conscious part of his personality decided to hear it as a warning. That "someone else" would be better. Would love Gillian more. Would be able to give her a heart that wasn't battered and bruised and filled with scar tissue, like his was. Maybe "someone else" was what she needed.

It took only a matter of days though – _days, not weeks_ – for him to realize that he was a complete fool for even thinking that "someone else" could ever love her more, because that was bloody impossible.

_He_ loved her.

He loved her _completely_. With his entire self. Would've gladly thrown himself in front of a thousand bullets just to keep her safe. And he didn't _just_ love her… he was _in love_ with her (_oh yes, there was a big difference_) in that maddeningly sweet way that made him want to cry.

Raw emotion. It wasn't is forte, yeah?

By mid-September, he'd come to rely on Emily's Sunday evening phone calls. They happened like clockwork – not too early and not too late, and often times just as he returned home from seeing Gillian. Because _of course_ he still saw her all the time. At the office… in the evenings… on the weekends. They just didn't sleep under the same roof anymore, and she hadn't seen him with his shirt off in several weeks.

_Pity_, that.

His skin missed the feel of her fingertips.

Emily's timing was so impeccable, though, that the conspiracy theorist in him decided it was intentional. That she was using it as a clever way to prod him into making a full throttle confession to Gillian. 'I love you, I want you, I need you.' Or something like that.

Their routine was simple: Emily would talk about her new friends, or her classes, or how much different everything felt in California, and then _boom_! Right when he least expected it, she'd cleverly switch the subject to Gillian.

'_We found the best little ice cream shop near campus, dad," _she'd said during her last call_. "It's _amazing_. They have at least ten different types of chocolate alone, and it's all so good that it should probably be illegal. I'm serious. No idea what they put in it, but I'm pretty sure it's some secretly addictive thing that switches off a girl's ability to care about calories, because I've eaten there four times this week. _Four_. At this rate, I'll come home for Christmas at least three sizes bigger than when I left. Hey, here's an idea… you and Gillian could come visit me and do your face-reading mojo on the shop owner, just to make sure they aren't actually putting any funny business in that stuff. Then _Gillian_ can get a sundae, and _you_ can whine about how much it costs, and _I_ get to visit both of you. Everybody wins_.'

Sneaky, she was.

The apple hadn't fallen far from that particular tree _at all._

His answer, though, was not sneaky. Because in a rare moment of unfiltered honesty, Cal Lightman had taken a deep breath… closed his eyes and put his hand over his heart… and made his daughter a little promise.

"_Got one hell of a deal on airfare just last week, actually," _he started. _"Bought two tickets – one for Gill, and one for me. Haven't actually _told_ her about them yet, though, because I haven't found the right time. But a weekend visit with both of my girls sounds fantastic. And maybe whatever brain switching mojo they put in that ice cream can work on me, yeah? I'm getting there, Emily. I promise. I love Gill, and she loves me, and you're right. Of course you're right. She won't wait forever. I just hope she can wait a little bit longer, though. Or that some cosmic thing will just fall out of the sky and knock me out of this bloody rut._"

The fact that Emily had grown silent _should_ have tipped him off that something was… up. But he'd gotten distracted by his own insecurity, and he'd been trying to work out the details of how he'd invite her to fly to California, and so he missed the tiny, suspicious sounding laugh that squeaked its way down the phone line.

"So let me get this straight," she'd asked. "You're actually ready to take the leap, but you're waiting for some kind of cosmic… _nudge_… to push you into it?"

Cal remembered sighing. Heavily. More than once. And then he'd said, "_At this point, waiting much longer feels utterly pathetic. I just wish my heart, my brain, and my gut would all get on the same page and stop screwing with me. But because history tells me that's not likely to happen any time soon, a "nudge" seems rather necessary. Thing is, it would have to be so cleverly disguised that I wouldn't_ actually know_ what it was, for fear that I'd talk myself out of actually doing_… this… _at the last possible second, then wind up losing Gill in the process. Self-fulfilling prophecy, Em. Bloody foreboding concept, that."_

Cal Lightman knew his daughter very well. Better than almost anyone in the entire world, really – save maybe Gillian. And so he _should have known_ that dangling those words in front of her would be akin to dangling a carrot in front of a starving rabbit. But he'd been too distracted to realize what he'd just done… and what he'd just _said_… and, most importantly, the plan that his lovely Emily was now about to set in motion _because_ of what he'd just said.

A vicious cycle, it was, but – sadly – a necessary one.

Because that brass ring was certainly _not_ going to grab itself.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter 3 coming soon, guys - stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Apologies if I went too far off the rails with this chapter. I sat down to type it, and one idea led to another, and then everything just sort of developed on its own. The Muse was happy, and I rather liked it... but I'm not sure how everyone else will react. I *may* have lost my mind, just a bit with this one. Remember I said this story is meant to be lighthearted and without angst? I really meant it, and this chapter definitely keeps track with that point of view. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

One Sunday night in mid-October found Cal completely immersed in a video chat with Emily. They covered everything from her dorm room (small but not _too_ small), to her roommate (chronic snorer), to her class schedule and professors. And she looked perfectly happy… perfectly at ease… perfectly lovely in every way, without so much as a hint of the trademark Lightman sneakiness anywhere to be found.

He knew that, because he looked.

(The whole apple not falling far from the tree bit made it an automatic habit.)

After roughly twenty minutes, Emily steered the conversation toward her biology class. She talked about her upcoming exam, and the fact that they'd begun studying the cellular composition of specific animals – everything from aquatic life, to single-celled organisms, to different types of fowl.

That's right: fowl.

As in _chickens_.

Which meant she was very bloody _good_, and the latest round of Lecture Time was set to kickoff momentarily.

And so Cal sighed. "That's what it's come to now, then?" he started. "You've given up on the entire concept of sly prodding, and have decided that the best case scenario – the thing that's going to win us both the fastest results – is to tell me that your introductory biology course at Berkley did an entire lesson on chickens? Subtle, Em. Really, really subtle."

No, she wasn't fooling _anyone_.

Almost immediately, she sighed right back at him, and then rolled her eyes as she began to explain herself. "Of course not, dad," she corrected. I didn't say it was the whole lesson – just a little five minute blurb. But when the professor said 'chickens,' my mind automatically jumped to you. Which is pathetic and sad for both of us, really, but that's not my point. _My point_ is that the word 'chickens' got me wondering what else they might do besides run around headless and have a name that's synonymous with cowardly behavior. So… I goggled."

Was she _joking_?

_Surely_ she didn't expect him to believe that this latest tale of crazy was anything other than a slight twist on her standard pitch. Because it was – without question – the _stupidest_ conversation filler he'd heard since the Yellow Car-Pink Antacid-Green Ice-cream debacle from a few months back.

"You googled… _chickens_?" he asked. With doubt practically crawling over every syllable. And with his eyebrows arched so impossibly high that they nearly climbed right off his face.

Cal fully expected her to crack; to laugh or break character in some minor way, and then he'd be able to call her on her nonsense and steer their conversation away from barnyard animals. Far, far, _far_ away.

But she didn't.

She simply nodded her head, and answered with one simple word. "Yes."

_Nope_. Nope_, he still wasn't buying it._ "Right there in biology class?" he tried again.

"Yes, dad – right there in biology class."

Another sigh and eye roll combination ensued – this time from Cal, not Emily – as he stopped just short of laughing aloud. "Well that's fantastic. Good to know my hard-earned tuition money is being put to good use, then."

She waved him off with a casual gesture and tried to steer them toward stable ground. "Don't you want to know what I found?"

"Truthfully, Em? I'm not quite sure."

"Well _I am_," she quickly countered. "And trust me – this is good. It said that roosters…"

"We're starting with the male chicken then, I see," he interrupted. Very sarcastically. Just because he was Cal Lightman and he could, and because she'd rather asked for it, now hadn't she? "Lovely. Just lovely. I was hoping you'd start there, because I can't _wait_ to see where this little analogy takes us."

"It said that _roosters_," she reiterated, "do this little dance thing called 'tidbitting' in order to attract a female's attention."

_Cue the next eye roll in three… two… one…_

"Bloody hell," Cal grumbled. "Please tell me this is not a real conversation. Someone please tell me that my daughter – my beautiful, brilliant, way-too-wise-for-her-own-good daughter – is _not_ actually comparing my relationship with Gillian Foster to that of a rooster's dance. Because that has got to be the _saddest_ thing I've ever heard in my _entire life_."

Undeterred, Emily simply smiled at him and forged ahead. As far as her reaction went, they could've been talking about the weather. She didn't seem to find it strange at all. "Tidbitting," she repeated. "See, they make these little sounds and move around erratically while they pick up and drop little bits of food."

"How charming."

"Yes, but see… here's the part that got me: the article also said that females prefer males who do the tidbitting dance _and_ also have brighter combs on their heads."

Say _what_, now? Clearly, the girl had lost her mind. It might've looked like Emily, and sounded like Emily, but obviously – obviously – the young girl he saw on the screen could not have actually _been_ his Emily, because _his Emily_ would never use a chicken analogy to do… _this_. Whatever the bloody hell "this" was.

_Would she?_

"Surely you must be joking," he finally managed.

"No, I'm not."

California was hot, right? Hot and sunny and covered in fog. Maybe it was the weather that had done it; maybe the weather had actually damaged her brain in only a few months. Because that was the only explanation he had for what seemed awfully close to insanity.

_As in_, even worse than his brilliant Yellow Cars theory.

The poor girl.

"Emily… four points, love? _One_: I am not a rooster. _Two_: Gillian is not a hen. _Three_: Neither Gillian nor myself resemble any breed of chicken in any way at all. And _four_: I _do not dance_, nor do I have a comb on the top of my head. It's called hair. Not feathers, or a comb, or one of those dangly wattle things that wobble back and forth. _Hair_. And this has got to be – hands down – the most bizarre analogy I've ever heard."

"Just humor me, alright? I mean, you did ask for it, dad. Don't you remember?"

Now, don't misunderstand. Cal had tried to hold back his laughter. He'd limited himself to eye rolls, sighs, and the occasion throat-clearing chuckle. But hearing those words come out of Emily's mouth? Hearing the amount of pure sincerity in her voice as she tried to legitimately find a link between humans and chickens? No, no… that was where he drew the line. And no amount of willpower in the entire world could've kept the laughter at bay any longer.

"I asked for you to illustrate the similarities between my relationship with Foster, and the mating rituals of barnyard fowl, now did I?" he laughed. "Call me crazy, Em, but I definitely _do not_ remember that."

"You said – and I'm paraphrasing, here – that a cleverly disguised nudge was exactly what you needed," she countered. "So here it is. I'm nudging. You're welcome."

Cal groaned and dropped his head into his hands as he realized, mere moments too late, that his daughter wasn't so insane after all. And even though he still had no bloody clue what point she'd actually wind up making, he did know – with certainty – that she _was_ about to make one.

(And probably a very good one, at that.)

But because he'd never been one to concede defeat so early – and definitely not before he understood all the rules of the game – he opted to play to one of his strengths: his ingrained ability to be a total smartass.

"Are you feeling well, darling?" he tried. "Any fevers? Bumps to your head? Anything at all that would explain why you think I'd _ever_ take romantic advice from the lifestyle of a chicken? Hey – here's a thought: last night, when Gill and I popped off for wings and beer, maybe I should've asked my dinner plate how to handle things. Like a crystal ball, but with hot sauce and a side of bleu cheese dressing."

See? Total smartass. He couldn't help himself.

"Bigger picture, dad. And please don't be so literal. I'm well aware of the fact it's _hair_ on your head and not a comb. But. Metaphorically speaking, you _do_ have certain things that are designed to attract attention."

Uh-oh. He knew that voice. It was the voice she always used when she was about to… win. Kind of like gloating, mixed with her own brand of smartass-ery, mixed with something else he'd never been able to label. Something decidedly "Emily."

Hence, his final sigh. It was one of defeat; one that waved the proverbial white flag and told her that he'd listen. That he'd stop making jokes, take her seriously, and perhaps learn something in the process. "What kinds of things?" he asked.

"Things like the tattoos," she shrugged. "Or the fact that your office is full of paintings, funny little statues, and souvenirs from all the traveling you've done. You have an entire library at work that's _crawling_ with conversation pieces, anecdotes, and stories. You fidget. You stutter. You alter your accent when it suits you. You make inappropriate jokes and wear wrinkled sweaters, and apparently have some sort of death wish that forces you to throw yourself in front of tractor bombs and bank robberies in the blink of an eye."

_Oh_.

_Those things. _

Alright, fine. When she put it _like that_… he had to admit, Emily _did_ made a rather valid point.

"Face it dad: your entire life is like a fancy, colorful comb. The tattoos are probably the closest example, but still… it's all just a metaphor for something bigger. You want Gillian's attention, and you've spent the last nine years constantly doing these insane things just to capture it. But what you don't seem to understand is that _you already have it_. She's already hooked. She's right there, waiting for you to just get off your feathered butt and do something about it, already. So why don't you try doing a more deliberate version of the tidbitting chicken dance, dad – just put your own spin on it, alright?"

Seven months.

It had been seven months since Claire died… seven months since he'd admitted – out loud – that he was in love with Gillian. Which meant seven months of lectures, and prodding, and procrastination, and self-doubt, which had now culminated in some of the best sounding logic he'd ever heard, by way of a chicken. And suddenly he didn't know which one of them was crazier: him, for actually agreeing with Emily's argument… or her, for making it in the first place.

Maybe they were both crazy.

Maybe Gillian was, too.

"Would this be a horribly bad time to remind you that I had all of these tattoos before I met her, love?" he laughed. "Because if it is, just say the word and I'll shut up. I promise. You won't hear a peep out of me about any of this again until after I've found a way to tell her how much I love her."

"If that's your way of thanking me, dad… then you're welcome. Least I could do, since I love you both and since you're footing the bill for all four years at Berkley plus two at grad school, right? So I'll just leave you with one last thought. Consider it a freebie. I know you had the tattoos since long before you met Gillian, but – and trust me, this is every bit as good as that tidbitting thing – you wear short sleeves all the time, now. Especially since Claire died. And I know this because… she mentioned it."

_She mentioned it._

Never had three words induced brain-lock faster than when his lovely Emily – lovely, insightful Emily – said the words, 'she mentioned it.'

_As in_, his tattoos. As in, his tendency to wear short sleeves in order to _show off_ his tattoos.

The implication of those three words inside Cal's head proceeded to spin and spin and spin, driven by some sort of inexplicable centrifugal force that made his thoughts get twisted, and his better judgment fly right out the window, as his sense of humor made a U-turn.

Open mouth, insert foot, indeed.

So he said – with a perfectly straight face – "Who mentioned it? Claire?"

"Smart ass," she countered. "Don't be morbid, dad. It's Gillian. _Gillian_ mentioned it. We were chatting the other day, and I asked her how she was feeling, and she said she was feeling cold, and then the conversation turned to you, and the next thing I knew… she mentioned it."

Oh yes, that was definitely brain-lock. It felt a bit like an ice cream headache, but with a slight wave of nausea just to balance things out. He didn't care for it _at all._

So he shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and then he tried speaking again. Just the basics at first. Just to find his footing and be sure of himself, now that the conversation had shifted away from chickens and onto actual human behavior.

_Namely his._

Which Gillian had _noticed_.

"Gillian Foster. _My_ Gillian. You're actually telling me that _my Gillian_ just-so happened to mention my tattoos. She went from cold weather, to me, to my arms. To the tattoos on my arms. Call me crazy, but one: those things don't seem to be connected at all, and two: why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"Oh, they're definitely connected," she countered. "And I didn't tell you sooner, because I didn't think you'd actually take it seriously if I'd told you sooner. I mean, I knew you'd _believe_ me, but see… things on Gillian's end are getting… complicated."

_Uh-oh._

Complicated.

That sounded rather foreboding. And now even though the brain-lock feeling had dissipated, the stomach ache he'd felt from it was back with a vengeance. In fact, it felt like a tiny little MMA fighter had crawled inside his gut and was pummeling the bloody hell out of it, just for fun. He was sick and scared and weak and paranoid, all at the same time.

All because Emily had put the words "Gillian" and "complicated" together in the same sentence.

"Now listen, dad… I can tell you _how_ it's all connected," Emily continued. "But you have to decide if you're really ready to hear it or not."

He was. And he wasn't. Back and forth, again and again, until finally – finally – he decided to _stop_ being complacent, and _start_ being a man, and reach for it, already.

That damned brass ring.

He wanted it. _Bloody hell_, he wanted it.

Mere seconds after he nodded to give her the go-ahead, Emily launched into an explanation that made his previous bout of brain-lock look like child's play. Because never in his wildest dreams – correction, in his wildest _nightmare_ – had he expected the words that were about to come out of her mouth.

Specifically, her final sentence.

That one was the killer.

"When I asked how she was feeling, Gillian told me that she was cold. Not happy, or sad, or tired, or relaxed… but cold. She said it was just in her nature; that she was always cold in the evenings, and that you used to get a kick out of the way she'd bump up the thermostat high enough to – she quoted you, here – "melt a grown man's earlobes" and yet still be chilly. She told me how you two would compromise, and she'd turn the temperature back down and then snuggle up to you instead, so she could use your body heat as a makeshift blanket. And she never understood how she could be sitting there in sweatpants, socks, and a sweater, while you wore five different versions of the same black t-shirt and jeans – no socks – and yet you were never cold. _And_ _then_ she said that she liked it when she could see your bare arms, because… wait for it… she loves your tattoos. All of them. Especially the band around your bicep. But remember I told you it's complicated? See, it's complicated because Gillian Foster _– your Gillian_ – just-so happens to have _two_ men in her life who think that she's amazing. One of them actually did something about it, and the other… did _not_. Care to make a wager as to which side of the fence you fall on, dad?"

Oh, he was going to be sick. Very, very sick. He was going to vomit all over the floor, then faint, then curl up into a little ball and die. In that order. And once he was done with that, then – _then_ – he was going to wash himself off, put on his best non-wrinkled, non-black, short-sleeved shirt… march straight over to Gillian's house… and tell her he loved her.

(Metaphorically speaking.)

Because fear and paranoia were one thing… waiting for a cosmic sign was all fine and good… but ignoring what Emily just said? Actually _hearing_ that another man was interested in Gillian – one who'd apparently made verbal overtures in hopes of winning her heart – was it. The last straw. It was the sign he needed, and it was illuminated by giant flashing neon lights.

And backed by a marching band.

With fireworks.

_Boom_.

"She said 'no' though, right Em?" he tried to clarify. "This loudmouth idiot who thinks he deserves her… she told him to piss off, didn't she? She told him that she's with me, yeah? That she and I are a thing. A couple. A package deal. That we're committed and permanent and happy together. Right?"

Wrong.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Less than a full second after his questions had been asked, Cal found the answers in Emily's pained expression.

_Oh. Shit._

Emily smiled, but it was a hundred times sadder than the last one he'd seen, back when she'd been happily talking about that silly chicken mating ritual and how Gillian liked his tattoos. Now she _looked_… like _he_ felt.

"She did say no, dad. I promise. But she also told me that she's getting really tired of being patient. And that if you aren't ready for someone to love you – if you aren't ready for _her_ to love you – then maybe… well, maybe it's best if you both just…"

No.

No, he was not going to let her finish that sentence. _No fucking way_. Because that scenario was _not_ for the best. It was for the worst. The absolute worst. Gillian was his, and he was hers, and dammit… that's how it was going to be. Permanently. It was fate. Destiny. Like every romantic movie she'd insisted they watch together since his accident. Bloody hell, it must have been forty of them at least. Everything from 'Casablanca,' to 'An Affair to Remember'… from 'When Harry Met Sally' to 'You've Got Mail.' She'd said those last two were her favorites, because they were about friendship that turned into love, and…

Wait a minute.

_Wait. A. Minute._

_Christ_, he was stupid. He was very, very stupid. And blind.

Because all those movies… all that snuggling… all those times she'd curled up with her head on his shoulder, and her hand on his arm – wrapped around _the ink_ on his arm, no less… those were all just her version of a chicken dance. Like – what was that term again? Tidbitting. But in reverse.

Right then and there – with his resolve as strong as steel, and his heart finally ready to be given away – Cal decided he would not screw this up. He would take that leap of faith… reach for that brass ring… and trust in Gillian's love to catch him on the way down.

"Does it always involve dancing, Em?" he finally asked. "This chicken ritual. The tidbitting. You said the rooster does this odd type of dancing, and then he drops little bits of food. _So_. The dancing and the food. They're a combo deal, right?"

Under his watchful eye, the solemn smile he'd seen on Emily's face mere moments earlier began to morph into something else. Something happy. Something so entirely heartwarming that the word "happy" felt three sizes too small the second it entered his brain.

She looked thrilled.

"I clearly remember hearing you say that you don't dance," she said softly – still keeping that overjoyed expression on her face as she played Devil's Advocate in order to make one final point.

Cal shrugged. He wasn't at all concerned with those particular basics anymore. "So I'll improvise."

"I know that face," Emily continued. "That's your "I Have A Plan" face. So please. Enlighten me. What _are_ you thinking, now?"

And see, that was the thing: he _wasn't_ thinking. He was _feeling_.

_Finally_.

"Dancing. Dancing requires music, and music leads to celebration, and celebration is much more fun with food around. Like a party. And Gillian loves parties, yeah? Goes into full-on Party Planning Guru mode every Christmas when we do the Annual Lightman Group bash with the tree and the eggnog and the candy canes. And the mistletoe. She loves having all the staff together to celebrate… says there's something downright magical in the air then, when everything seems possible and happy endings feel like an inevitability, rather than just wishful thinking."

The look he'd had earlier, when Emily first mentioned her chicken googling? Yeah. That was the exact same expression that stared back at him now, as he launched into a monologue that was half romantic and half full-on sap, without a drop of hesitation or fear anywhere to be found. He was done with all of that. Finished. Onto bigger and better things.

Namely Gillian.

Namely being able to love Gillian proudly, rather than hiding behind an ill-conceived plan to wait for "The Right Time." It was _now_, yeah? Now or never.

And bloody hell… 'Never' was not an option.

"In case you've forgotten," Emily offered, "It's mid-October. The Christmas party is nearly eight weeks away. And if you think I'm actually going to let you wait that long until you finally tell Gillian exactly how you feel – with actual words, not just with your face muscles – then you have totally lost your mind. Because I'm serious, dad. If you wait that long, you _will_ lose her. She'll decide that you don't feel the same way… and she'll move on to Tom, or Tony, or whatever his name was, and leave you behind. Loving her from a distance, and kicking yourself in the ass for not taking the risk when you had a chance."

If Cal had been paying strict attention, then he would've seen the tiny little twinkle in Emily's eye that should have been a clue. A clue that she was still… up to something. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn't being as truthful about this whole Tom or Tony business as he _thought_ she was.

_(Hell, maybe Gillian's potential Mystery Man didn't even exist, and she'd invented the entire thing!)_

But he didn't see it, because he was too busy checking calendars, and trying to purchase airfare on his business laptop while he kept only _one_ eye – not both – on his personal laptop, where the video chat was still going strong.

He didn't see the sly little grin at the corner of her mouth, or the way she sighed in relief when it became obvious what he was trying to do.

In fact, he didn't see any signs of deception leakage on her face at all… but they were there. Lucky for both of them, he wasn't in the mood to deal with science.

"How do you feel about making a trip home near Halloween, Em? Because, see… you're right. There's no way in hell I'm waiting until the Christmas party to go through with this. But thanks to your chicken logic and all those comments about how Gillian loves my tattoos, something tells me that The First Annual Lightman Group Halloween Party would be a _fantastic_ way to get this particular ball rolling."

Emily's smile could've lit up New York City right about then, and Cal decided that her happiness, mixed with the fact that he now felt like a thousand pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders, meant that he was most definitely making the right decision.

Halloween.

He would 'tidbit' _the hell_ out of Halloween, just for Gillian.

And as for the chickens. Apparently giant, cosmic nudges occasionally came via barnyard fowl and the lovely people at Google.

_Brilliant_.

Now, however, he had a much newer dilemma: What in the hell would he _ever_ use as a costume?

* * *

**A/N: Just wanted to mention 2 things in closing: One- Sadly, I actually did Google chickens for this chapter. And two, in case any of you are worried that I'll actually put Cal in a chicken suit for his costume, rest assured... that will not happen. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: My original goal was to have this story mostly finished by Halloween, but clearly... that's not going to happen. Sigh. Real life, plus the other story I'm trying to keep up with, are both making that next-to impossible. So, please don't yell at me too loudly if I post the actual party chapter sometime in the first week of November, okay? I *think* you'll enjoy the end result, even though it's almost certainly going to stretch past 10-31 before you get to read it. As always, many thanks for all the feedback so far! Much appreciated!**

**And now... on with the story. :)**

* * *

Monday morning dawned early, and Cal – who somehow managed to knock his snooze alarm habit down to three whacks, instead of fourteen – was anxious to take Emily's advice and put a decidedly "Lightman" spin on the whole chicken dancing theory she'd mentioned the previous night.

He _was_ a realist, though. And a scientist. So he googled it himself, just to make sure she hadn't invented the entire thing in a ploy to mess with his head. She hadn't, of course. "Tidbitting" was legitimate. Color him impressed.

And even though he didn't have a bloody clue as to how he'd ever pull off hosting (_yes, that's right, hosting_) a Halloween party with less than two weeks' notice… let alone act as nonchalantly as possible about the whole thing, while his insides were doing acrobatic maneuvers and trying to kill him in his sleep… he was, admittedly, excited to try.

Excited. Meaning one part fear, one part nausea, and two parts pleasant anticipation. Or something like that. Math was more Gillian's game than his, yeah? As were holidays. And costumes. And social gatherings of any kind. In fact, the only thing he was relatively sure he could handle alone was the food. That part was a no-brainer. The rest of it, though, required a bit more… _finesse_.

Especially the costume.

Oh sure, it would probably take him all of thirty minutes to pop into the nearest costume shop and grab the first thing that caught his eye. Assuming he could actually _find_ a costume shop, that is. He could take the easy route and opt for the standard super hero, pop culture reference, horror villain, or assorted scary monster.

_But_ ...

He'd spent far too many years settling for 'easy,' and look where that particular behavior had gotten him: seven months of incessant prodding from Emily… nine years of silently pining after Gillian and convincing himself he'd never be good enough for her… and – last but certainly not least – one ridiculously awful parallel between himself and a chicken. Romantically speaking, it wasn't quite rock bottom, but it was close.

("Rock Bottom" and "Chicken Dancer" were neighboring states, so to speak.)

_This time_, he wanted to make a statement. Something that would show Gillian just how serious he was – about her, about them, and about their future. He wanted to make her smile; to try and find something that _she_ liked, and then "spin" it in such a way as to knock her socks (and perhaps other clothing) clean off.

Granted, that was rather a lot of pressure to put on clothing, but why not? After all, if chicken logic had gotten him this far… then maybe a ridiculous costume and a bit of luck might take care of the rest.

* * *

Coffee.

Gillian liked coffee.

Gillian also liked sweets.

And Gillian flat-out _adored_ these insanely expensive, ridiculously huge, iced pumpkin coffees that were sold at a quaint little shop near the office. (Side of insulin optional.)

So, after deciding that caffeinated beverages laced with an obscene amount of sugar _would_, in fact, work just fine with his insane plan to "tidbit"_ the hell_ out of Halloween just because he loved her_,_ he purchased the largest size available, managed _not_ to grumble about the price tag, and added on a couple of bagels just for good measure.

_Take that, chickens._

By the time he arrived at her doorway, Gillian was already up to her elbows in paperwork and she actually did a double-take when she realized that _yes_, he _was_ early… and _yes_, he'd brought her breakfast. And coffee. _Gourmet_ coffee, at that.

"Is that…?" she started. But the answer was obvious, so the question died on her lips, unfinished, as a tiny grin began to play in their corners.

(_Oh_, how he loved those corners.)

With her paperwork momentarily forgotten, she swiveled in her chair to face him fully and purposely gave him enough time to say _something_. To flirt, or make a joke, or give her some kind of explanation as to why he'd arrived at work bearing gifts. Edible gifts, at that. Edible gifts that he'd previously said – on more than one occasion – were both over_priced_ and over_rated_.

But he didn't take the opening. Instead, he studied her face… grew distracted by the cut of her dress, the height of her heels, and the faint pink blush that began to color the skin just below her collarbones. And he might have just been imagining it, but he could have sworn that her breathing began to change.

Halloween plan, _one_… Complacency, _zero_.

Through the mental fog in his brain, Cal heard Gillian give a slight cough as she tried to prompt him into conversation. "I thought you hated that place," she tried, gesturing toward the bag he still held. "You always said it was – and I quote – "bloody ridiculous to spend a small fortune on something that can be consumed through a straw," and yet there you stand. Iced coffee in one hand… bag of treats in the other. So tell me: why the change of heart?"

What made the comment pop into his head, he had no idea. _At all_. Call it temporary insanity, or bravery by way of extreme sexual frustration and unconditional love, but it was in his _brain_ one second and then it was shooting out of his _mouth_ the next. Like fidgeting, but with words.

Lots and lots of words.

"Because you're worth it," he said confidently. "Actually, you're worth much, much more than this, but I figured the coffee was as good of a starting point as any, yeah?"

Was it eloquent? _No_. Did he _care_ that it wasn't eloquent? _Also, no_. Because she shook her head a bit and blinked at him – as if to jokingly convince herself that he was actually there – and _then_ she smiled. It was that delightful, all-over-her-entire-face type of smile that he bloody loved, and seeing _that particular smile_ directed at him, just because of something he'd done, was a rush unlike anything he'd felt in months.

And that wasn't to say that he _never_ did anything nice for Gillian. He did. Of course he did. He opened doors, and paid restaurant tabs… let her have ninety percent of the territory under an umbrella when it rained, so that she stayed entirely dry while one side of his body – sometimes both – became sopping wet in seconds. He let her have the armrest when they went to the movies, and he always let her have the last bite of any joint desserts… but all of those things were a bit more predictable than arriving at the office a full hour early, with the most expensive cup of gourd-flavored coffee in the entire Eastern time zone and bringing bagels, too.

(_They_ were also pumpkin.)

He took a handful of steps closer to her desk, grinning like a loon the entire way, when one small noise momentarily broke the spell and stopped him in his tracks. It was her cell phone. The tiny little 'ping' of the text alert notice on her cell phone, to be precise. He'd heard it loud and clear, because it was sitting face up on her desk. The key word there being "was," though, because as soon as it pinged… she gave him an apologetic smile and promptly stashed it in the top drawer of her desk.

Uh-oh.

With his mind instantly jumping back to Emily's mention of Tom or Tony or whatever-the-bloody-hell the wanker's name was, Cal frowned. He frowned and slouched and felt at least half of the proverbial wind go out of his sails as he stood there – stock still – with _her_ coffee and _their_ bagels, and with every ounce of control in his face focused on pretending that he didn't give a toss about her phone, _or_ who might've been on the other end of it.

He was crap at pretending though, at least when it came to her.

Total, utter _crap_.

When Gillian's eyes went wide and the blush that had been right above her cleavage relocated to her face, his first instinct was to panic. To overreact. To convince himself that he'd already lost her, and that the whole chicken dancing, Halloween party idea was completely bonkers.

But then reason bested insecurity, and he realized that he was the one who'd gone bonkers. Gillian was a grown adult, right? She was perfectly entitled to get text messages from friends, or associates, or – _shudder at the thought_ – men. And besides… even if Tom or Tony Wanker showed up in the next thirty seconds and tried to sweep her off her feet, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it besides what he was _already_ doing.

His plan was in motion, and his heart was finally ready to give itself away, and that was progress. _So_. Deep breath. He was fine.

Shaking himself out of his temporary silence, Cal placed the coffee and bagels on the corner of Gillian's desk, then shrugged out of his coat and tossed it across one of her guest chairs. Given the season, DC weather had already turned cold – he'd seen light snow that morning, actually – but his choice of attire betrayed the temperatures. Short sleeves, of course. He was not a stupid man, and he needed to test another one of Emily's theories firsthand.

Rather than sitting in chair number two, he aimed for Gillian's sofa and plopped down upon the corner cushion with his usual flair. Only this time, instead of practically slouching himself onto the floor… he draped his right arm along the back, so that it was fully extended, with the tattoo on his forearm is turned upward toward her view. And, as luck would have it, he _had_ calculated correctly. From that angle, his sleeves _were_ short enough to allow the tiniest bit of the inked band around his bicep to peek out beneath the fabric.

_Question One_: Would Gillian actually notice?

_Question Two_: If so, would he be able to spot any signs of attraction or – heaven help him – arousal, now that he knew they were possible?

He sat as Gillian stood – coffee and bagels in hand. Her smile was still visible, but it had become somewhat… _different_. As though she'd just thought of the perfect double entendre or naughty observation and didn't yet feel comfortable sharing it with him. _Pity, that_. The look on her face was downright intoxicating, and yet he knew that she wasn't even _trying_ to make it come across that way. She wasn't flirting. Not deliberately. She was just watching him, but the heat behind her eyes was practically enough to make him groan.

She came one step closer and her gaze landed on his forearm. It lingered there through steps two and three, and by the fourth one – the one that actually _did_ make him groan, though he hid it behind a pitiful attempt to clear his throat – her attention was fully fixed on the bottom edge of the design around his bicep. Her eyes were dark and dilated… the pink tinge had reappeared along her collarbones… and last but not least, she actually licked her lips.

Right then and there, Cal knew he'd found the answer to _both_ of his questions: _Hell. Yes._

His smile widened as hers grew bashful, and then he patted the center cushion with eager fingertips. "Sit with me," he breathed. "I would assume that iced coffee is best enjoyed _before_ the ice actually melts, yeah?"

One beat passed, then another, and then _finally_, Gillian regained her powers of speech well enough to banter. "I don't mind sharing, you know. There's plenty here for both of us, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you might actually like it. It's not too strong, and it's not too sweet. In fact, the _only_ bad thing I could say about it at all is that it makes me cold. All of me, really – hands, feet, lips, nose. The whole nine yards. But it tastes divine. Want to try?"

If Gillian had just done… _that_… deliberately, he had no clue. But what he did know was that as soon as she started listing off body parts and using the phrase "tastes divine," it took every ounce of willpower in his entire body just to sit next to her. No fewer than a dozen well-detailed scenarios suddenly flew into his brain, and all of them – all of them – were intimately attuned to her word choice, as his imagination offered a play by play of whose mouth should go where, and in what order.

He _abso-bloody-lutely_ wanted to try it.

But because he knew she was talking about the coffee and not about the temptations that undoubtedly lurked beneath her dress, he opted to decline.

_Deep breath in… deep breath out… focus._

"Gillian, love… with all due respect, pumpkin should not go in drinks. Pumpkin pie… pumpkin soup… pumpkin bread… all fine. But hot, steaming pumpkin that is overly sugared and sipped through a Styrofoam cup? No thanks. It's just… odd."

And just like that, they were back on track. The flirting and innuendo were still there, but now they were hidden behind humor and casual conversation. In fact, that was perhaps his favorite thing about their relationship. It was balanced. It wasn't all heat all the time – which likely would've burned itself out by the second year of their partnership. No, their dynamic was built on heat, hope, hurt, and healing, all simultaneously.

They had… _everything_.

Including banter.

"So this is like your Pink Antacid theory, just with orange gourds instead?" she quipped.

"Spoken from a woman who say mint ice cream reminds her of a bulging cartoon monster," he answered.

_See?_ Balance. Without question, it was one of the keys to their long-term happiness.

Sipping contentedly, Gillian smiled around the edges of her straw. "You might as well admit it, Cal. Even though you probably don't understand them all the time, you still love my quirky little idiosyncrasies just as much as I love yours."

And just like that, the tide shifted again. From easy banter back to heat and hope, thanks to one innocent phrase. _Love_. She'd said the word "love" twice in two sentences, and in one of them, she'd flanked it with an "I" and a "yours." If she'd dropped one letter from the final syllable, well… that would've been it. His heart likely would've leapt right out of his chest and landed in her lap.

Because right up until that moment – that specific, comfortable moment – any and all variations on the standard "I love you" phrasing had been done with their faces only. No words invited. And even though Gillian still hadn't _really_ come right out and said it… she _had_ come closer to that inevitability than either of them had reached in nine years.

His eyes darkened as hers grew wide, and they each tried to read every inch of the other's face at once. And trust him, Cal knew exactly what she saw on his. It was desire, plain and simple. He could feel it in his muscles… in his bloodstream… in every single heartbeat. Gillian's reaction, though, wasn't as straightforward. She showed a bit of fear. A tiny, miniscule, blink-and-he-would've-missed-it measure of fear that morphed into shock… then relief… and then something he could only describe as curiosity.

Interesting.

Right then and there, Cal decided that _this_ – their odd little conversation borne from pumpkin coffee, tattoos, and flirting – was just another part of the dance. He was improvising, remember? He was trying to feel more, and analyze less, and so far… it was working.

_Really. Bloody. Well._

"Talked to Emily last night," he said casually. Or rather, he _tried_ to say it casually. But the phrase got tangled in his throat and what actually came out his mouth sounded like one, gigantic, twenty-two letter word, and it made both of them giggle.

Cough, cough.

Sip, sip.

"Anyway, she's doing well," he continued. "Said she misses us, that she loves us, and that she wishes she could come back for a visit before Thanksgiving, just to catch up in person and see how you and I are… getting along."

_Yes_, that was a half-truth. And _yes_, he knew that Gillian could have seen enough signs of deception on his face to know there was a whole second half out there somewhere, just waiting to be uncovered. _But_. He didn't actually think she'd call him on it. Not her. No, she was too polite for that, wasn't she? Especially since he'd brought her a sugar-laden breakfast and worn his shortest-sleeved shirt, too.

She wouldn't actually pay attention to his half-truth, right?

_Wrong_.

With a capital "W."

Typed out in giant, boldfaced letters.

Now, she might've _wanted_ to ignore his little slip, but in the end… it took her only a matter of seconds to flash him one of the biggest, most poorly hidden smirks he'd ever seen and say, "She said all that, did she? Sounds like quite the informative conversation."

Her tone was teasing but her words were kind, so he tried to move the conversation forward while he _also_ tried to decide how he should actually tell her about the party.

The one he'd agreed to host.

_At his house._

While providing music, food, alcohol, and fun.

And – _and_ – while wearing a costume.

Who's bloody brilliant idea was that again? Oh. Right. _His_.

"We started looking at the calendar and trying to find a good weekend that would work best with our schedules here, and her classes there," he continued, "and I thought… why not Halloween?"

Oh, he was reaching. He was dropping partial truths all over the room and he _knew_ Gillian could see them all. In fact, she could have called him on his bullshit right after the first word. But she didn't. Mostly because her eyes had finally stopped flickering all around his face, and they'd settled on the one part of it he hadn't expected her to choose: his mouth.

That's right, she was watching his mouth in much the same way as _he'd_ been watching that faint little blush spread across her chest. Like she wanted to haul him to the floor and work off the calories from her iced coffee via some good, old-fashioned naked cardio.

"Halloween," he repeated, just to get his brain back on track and out of its current position in the gutter. "You know, love, it's probably a good thing you're sitting down, because I tell you about the insane thing I agreed to do… well, you might just faint."

Gillian grinned. "Good thing you know mouth-to-mouth then, isn't it."

_Say what, now?_

Wait a minute.

Just… _wait one bloody minute._

Wasn't _he_ supposed to be the one waving around surprises this morning? Bringing her coffee, and showing off his tattoos, and talking about this last-minute Halloween party he was trying to plan? And just when he was finally getting down to business… _boom_! A handful of very well-chosen words set his libido on high alert.

All blood cells commence re-route. Brain to begin shutdown mode in _three… two… one_…

Finally taking pity on him, Gillian broke the sudden silence and let him off the proverbial hook. _Bless her._

"That was _Emily_ on the phone earlier," she offered. "_She_ was the one texting me. And for what it's worth, when she told me about this party you're throwing… well, I _did_ nearly faint. Because let's face it, Cal. You aren't exactly a social butterfly."

Not even nine o'clock, and he already had a headache.

And for the life of him, he had no idea why Emily had already beaten him to the punch. The fact that she had already texted Gillian herself, to spill the details of their conversation last night made no sense at all. He couldn't think of a single reason why she'd…

"Don't get mad, alright?" she interrupted, breaking his de-railed train of thought with a quick squeeze of his forearm. His inked forearm. "She said she wanted to make sure you didn't change your mind, and that getting all of us on board was the easiest way to do that. So she texted everyone this morning, made use promise that we wouldn't let you go back on your word, and she even did you a favor. Not bad for being in a completely different time zone, I'd say."

Of all the questions that were racing through Cal's head, the top two were as follows: Who, exactly, was "everyone?" And, most importantly, exactly what "favor" did she _think_ she'd done?

"Tell me, Gill – is it a massively bad idea for me to drink Scotch this early in the morning, or can we make an exception just this once? Because I've suddenly got a bit of pounding behind this eye – the left one – and it's got Emily's name written all over it."

She squeezed his arm again, then leaned in closer and ran the back of her hand across his forehead and down over his cheek. Trying to soothe his skin, his nerves, and his headache all in one go. And then she said, "She told me first, I think. Just to see how I'd react. And then when I told her that I loved the idea, she got Loker and Torres in on the action, too. We all think that you've probably lost your mind… that you might have some sort of trick up your sleeve that we've just not figured out yet… _and_, that the First Annual Lightman Group Halloween Party sounds like a hell of a lot of fun. So relax, alright. We're all here to help."

Odd choice of words, she had there.

Because "relax," and "we're all here to help" sounded like mutually exclusive terms to him. He had not signed on to plan a party with Loker, or Torres – not even close. _No, no_… with those two on board, he'd likely wind up with a disco ball hanging from his living room ceiling, an inflatable swimming pool in his foyer, and some sort of body shot situation taking place on the sofa. They were _decades_ younger, after all. And the last thing he needed was to wind up looking like an old fool at his own party.

Still, though… it was probably best to find it out now, while he could re-group, rather than have someone pull a surprise at the last possible second.

"I'm almost afraid to ask this, love," he said, "but here goes nothing. What's the favor, then? The one that my Emily _thinks_ she's done?"

_Squeeze, squeeze._

"She put Loker and Torres in charge of the music, and she put me in charge of decorations. And – last but not least – she told all of us to make absolutely sure you didn't renege on the costume portion of the evening."

Inhale… exhale… relax. As a matter of fact, those promises _were_ rather helpful. He wasn't completely panicking (yet), and he wasn't overly worried (also yet). As far as his experience on the Emily-powered scale of meddling went, things could _most definitely_ have been much, much worse.

Gillian was happy. Emily was happy. The staff, _apparently_, was happy. Everybody won. And to that end, he'd count "Insane Chicken Dancing Ritual: Day One" to be a huge success.

(So far, at least.)

"Let me guess, love. You've known about this party for all of what – an hour now, at most? I bet you've already got your costume choices narrowed down to two, and you've even got a few ideas in that pretty little head of yours as to what I should wear. Am I right?"

_Yes_, of course he was. Her embarrassed shrug, mixed with a deepening blush and the way she began to self-consciously chew on her bottom lip confirmed everything he'd just said. Still, he could hardly blame her for getting excited. It wasn't every day he opened his home to their entire staff (_bloody hell!),_ gave them free reign to decorate it how they pleased (although _technically_, that particular arrangement had come from Emily, not him), _and_ agreed to dress up in some sort of odd costume.

Or maybe scary.

He hadn't decided yet.

Rather than tease her any further, he opted to ask the only question that hadn't yet been answered. "Who'd she put in charge of the food, then? Me?"

Of course she did; a second nod-grin-blush combination from Gillian confirmed that one, as well. Which was all fine and good with him, really, because he _was_ rather handy in the kitchen. He could handle the food just fine, _thank-you-very-much_.

And one thing was already certain: They would _not_ be eating chicken.

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**A/N: Next chapter coming later this week, guys! And in case you're also following my other one - "Take the Long Way Home" - a chapter of that one will be posted first. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: There's less than 4 hours of Halloween left where I live, but since this is a Halloween story, I wanted to post one chapter on the actual holiday. Just because. :) Wish I could've gotten the entire story finished by tonight, but it should all be completely done within a week. Thanks again for the feedback, and I hope you enjoy!**

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Cal Lightman knew Gillian Foster better than he knew anyone else in the entire world, save, _perhaps_, his daughter. He knew her hobbies. Her likes and dislikes. He knew when she was only pretending to like something, just to be polite. And he _also_ knew that nine times out of ten, her true reactions to the things that made her happy were downplayed just a bit, because sometimes... her inner child had a shy streak.

Orange slushies and chocolate pudding might've made her tastebuds sing, but the average person wouldn't have known it. Nor would they have known about her secret love of sledding or snowball fights… the thrill of victory she still felt each time she successfully ate with chopsticks and _didn't_ drop half of her dinner on the floor… the fact that she could play the guitar _and_ sing, but not do both simultaneously… or the fact that she sometimes drank milk straight out of the carton, just because she _could_.

No, the average person would've been surprised by how subtle she could be, when the situation called for it. Or rather, whenever she _felt_ that the situation called for it. Because being the center of attention wasn't exactly her scene.

Subtle. _By definition_, the word was simple: 'Not immediately obvious… delicate or faint… executed in secret.' But_ in practice_? Well, that was a different matter entirely. Because for all the ways that Gillian Foster embraced subtlety, there was one clear-cut exception. One "_thing"_ for which her enthusiasm was never dulled, and always read like an open book for anyone to see.

And that "thing" was holidays.

Ever the idealist, she adored tradition – and from the flowers-and-candy standard set by Valentine's Day in February, to the magic of decking the halls in December (with all the major stops in between), she was eager to spread the joy to everyone around her.

Giant evergreen adorned with fairy lights and colorful bulbs at Christmas? Check, check, and _check_. That's right. She had _three_.

Valentine's Day cookie cutters which she used to excess, as she baked dozens of treats for the staff every February? Hearts and arrows in _two_ sizes, of course. He'd seen them first hand – had even helped her bake once, too, to mark her first post-divorce Valentine's celebration.

They'd been tipsy _before_ dinner that year… had gotten piss drunk _after_ dinner… and somewhere in between, they'd managed to create two dozen of the most ridiculous looking semi-burned cookies (_with icing!)_ he'd ever seen. And although he didn't remember many of the finer details of that evening, he _did_ remember laughing a lot, smiling until his bloody cheeks _ached_, and getting flour absolutely everywhere.

Seriously… they'd made an awful mess.

First she'd thrown a fistful at him, and then he'd thrown one at her, and the next thing they'd known, the timer was 'dinging,' they'd nearly kissed, and both of them had dustings of flour in places where it should never be found. Down his back… in her ear… up his nose… smeared above her cleavage. Without question, it was the happiest Valentine's Day memory he had, and he _still_ couldn't look at a sugar cookie without cracking a smile.

Point was, holidays were Gillian's "happy place," and as soon as Cal had been told that _she_ was in charge of decorations, he should have known what was coming. But. Call it insanity, or denial, or being ridiculously (and silently) in love… he hadn't actually realized the _sheer volume_ of Halloween "stuff" she'd convinced him to purchase until it was all gathered into one central spot his living room.

Where it began to mock him.

_Loudly_.

The bright orange jack-o-lanterns were smartasses, the decorative punch bowl tried to trip him, the tabletop confetti and streamers snorted and rolled their eyes, and all the other assorted gear (_including a portable fog machine that she'd sneaked into the cart when his back was turned_) flat-out pointed and laughed.

_Yes_, it looked as though the room had literally _vomited_ Halloween, and he shuddered to think how much worse it would get by the night of the party. T-minus four days, and counting…

"Only four days left," she said cheerfully, as if she'd read his mind. "Did you get your costume yet?"

_Costume_.

After hearing that word no fewer than thirty-five times in the last few days, he was beginning to bloody _hate_ it. Torres called them gentle reminders… Loker claimed to be taking bets as to the nature of Cal's choice… and Gillian was just plain curious. And excited. So with her, he didn't mind as much.

(Most of the time.)

Cal sighed. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she organized the loot into different piles and gathered the bags to be recycled. And she just looked so _at home_ there with him that it actually made him ache a little inside.

"Not sure yet," he answered. "I did buy a legitimate costume, but I haven't decided if it's the right one yet. It doesn't feel… like '_me_.' Make sense?"

Gillian grinned at him. She'd finished sorting all the decorations and was now making herself comfortable in his kitchen, grabbing two cold beers as she checked to see what they should have for dinner. They did that fairly often, actually. Meals alone had grown few and far between, and the fact that his brain had already decided which one of them should wash the dishes and which one should dry only made the aforementioned ache grow larger.

'_Seven months_,' he mused.

How pitiful.

"It's a costume Cal," she teased. "What do you expect it to do – play poker, eat baked beans, and get into trouble? _ I_, for one, think you're putting way too much pressure on yourself. So _relax_. I'm sure whatever you choose will be perfectly fine."

(_Relax_. That was the other word everyone kept throwing at him.)

"So if I show up in a bright yellow banana suit or dressed like a giant hot dog… you'd be alright with that?" he asked.

Gillian chuckled as she pulled a few ingredients from his refrigerator and got to work prepping their meal. "If you show up dressed as a banana, a hot dog, or anything that is phallic shaped, then I hope you realize Loker will never let you live it down. He'll read between those lines for _months_."

Yes, that was very true. Loker would likely leap at the chance to make some sort of penis joke – repeatedly – at anyone's expense, if he could get away with it. A giant yellow banana suit rather invited the teasing first hand, yeah? Which meant that anything even remotely… _cylindrical_… was off the table, lest he be laughed out of his own party.

"How 'bout a vampire, then? Or an axe murderer? Maybe even some sort of animal – like a gorilla, or a bear, or one of those penguins you think are so bloody cute. You're honestly telling me that any of those are fine?"

As soon as his last question hit the air, Gillian stopped fussing with the meal preparation and slowly focused all of her attention on him. One hand shot to her hip, and she looked at him as if to say, '_Have you completely lost your mind?_' She was… suspicious. Didn't buy for even one second that he would've ever considered a banana suit, let alone a penguin. And she was right, of course. He wouldn't. But he _would_ fish around to see if he could get her to slip up and tell him about her costume. So far, all he'd been able to find out was that it had been special ordered and was – apparently – "perfect."

_(No pressure there.)_

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Cal?" she tried. "Because I've got a sneaking suspicion that you're _definitely_… up to something."

Point made, he watched her lips curl into the tiniest little smirk as she studied him. _All of him,_ from head to foot and back again. In slow motion, and with a sweeping gaze that was a perfect match for the one he used on her whenever he thought she wouldn't catch him. And he could tell she wanted to say something else – to tease him, or maybe even to flirt – but she didn't. She just kept right on smirking, and left him to be responsible for steering the conversation.

"Such little trust," he joked, feigning wounded pride as he grinned. "Don't suppose you'd take pity on me and just tell me what you're wearing, then? Because that would make my decision easier and save you the humiliation of spending the whole evening dancing with an old guy in a bad suit, yeah? I'd say that's a win-win, because _technically_, you'd be doing both of us a favor."

Gillian turned her attention back to cooking, and gave him the side-eye as she chopped fresh vegetables for a salad. "_One_," she started, "you aren't old. _Two_, I'm already doing you a giant favor by handling all the decorations. Otherwise you'd stick two pumpkins on the dining room table – uncarved – buy each of us a single beer, and call it good. And _three_… so long as you're comfortable, then that's all that matters. Axe murderer, vampire, pirate, or clown, I'll gladly dance with any version of you, alright? So I'm sorry, but no. I'm not telling you anything about my costume except to say again that it's absolutely perfect. Perfect, and extremely… _appropriate_."

He frowned. She wasn't exactly giving him much to work with, but he _was_ very bloody intrigued. Perfect and appropriate certainly left the imagination with plenty of options.

"The one I already bought is fine, I guess. It fits. I don't hate it. It has a hat, and a whip, and a rope, too. Indiana Jones, yeah? So unless a better idea falls into my lap in the next four days, then I'll wear it. But see, here's the thing: all of "this," he said, fidgeting his hands around the room, "Isn't exactly my comfort zone. I don't "do" social things very often, and I _absolutely_ don't do them while in costume. But _you_ love these things, Gill. You always have. And really, that's the whole reason I'm doing this in the first place – to make you happy. _So_. That smile you get, when you talk about how perfect and "appropriate" your choice is? Well, if there's anything that I can do – or anything that I can _wear_ – to make that smile stay on your face even ten seconds longer, then I'll do it. Gladly."

With wide eyes and a slackened jaw, Gillian looked as though she'd couldn't believe what she'd just heard. And truthfully, he couldn't believe it either. Because if Tom or Tony Wanker was still in the picture – still buzzing around in the periphery of Gillian's life – then Cal didn't want to do anything she'd consider as foolish. Costume included. Which was probably stupid, since it was all meant to be in good fun. _But_. It was Gillian, yeah? And he didn't want to take any chances.

He loved her. He was _in love with her_. He was ashamed that they'd waited this long to try and move their relationship forward, when really… it was hard to imagine _any_ two people being more connected that they already were. All of his crazy improvising… all of the chicken analogies and tidbitting references… all of the planning, and decorating, and costuming, and stress – one way or another, they would end in four days. On the night of his party. No more bullshit, and no more excuses.

So yeah… he was a little bit nervous.

Gillian, however, didn't look nervous at all. She looked extremely comfortable, standing there in his kitchen and making dinner for both of them, like it was her home just as much as his.

(Someday soon, he hoped it would be.)

She gave him a brilliant smile – the kind that made him smile in return, just because he loved it so much – and she said a single word. "Why?"

In reply, he simply shrugged. "Because it's a beautiful face, yeah? You're a beautiful woman. And you're even more beautiful when you're happy."

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**To be continued... :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Fair warning, guys. This chapter is a strong T. It turned out much, much higher on the flirtatious scale than I expected, and it's full of innuendo and steaminess. That being said, some of you - myself included - had been looking for Gillian to be a bit more... aggressive with Cal. I mean, it's been seven months since Claire died, right? They aren't getting any younger. So, for those of you that like flirtatious Gillian, she's the star of the show in this installment. The Muse demanded to take things in that direction, and I went along for the ride. As always, many thanks for all of the feedback, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thanks for reading!**

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"Do you believe in fate?"

If that question had come from anyone else, Cal would've immediately answered in the negative. He would've shaken his head and rolled his eyes, and then made a right arse of himself trying to sell his own lie. Because he was a scientist, yeah? He was trained to see things as black and white truths, or quantifiable reactions – _not_ the fairytale notion of a pre-ordained moment in time.

_Fate… destiny… luck… kismet… chance_. Nothing scientific there, yeah?

But it wasn't just "_anyone_" who was asking. It was Gillian. And as far as _their_ relationship went, all those poetic synonyms seemed to fit rather nicely, from day one right up until – how did that calculate, again? Nine years and some-odd months already? That was something like… thirty four hundred days, give or take a few weeks. Certainly a mind-blowing number, to say the least.

She fell silent while waiting for his answer, and seemed to understand that he was _thinking_, rather than _avoiding_. So she didn't push. She didn't rush him. She simply sat there, beautiful as ever and smiling with her eyes.

Of all those terms, _'luck'_ was perhaps his favorite. Lord knows where they would've been without it – lost to Matheson's bullet, or to Jenkins' protégé… killed in action in Afghanistan, or cut down by a bomb blast in a handful of different scenarios. He could've lost her to Burns, or ruined everything himself thanks to a string of bad decisions and one night stands.

Yes, 'luck' had served them very well, indeed.

(Not to mention _love_.)

Mirroring her smile, he chanced a quick glance around the crowded room before pulling his chair closer to hers. It was subtle, yet not, and although she obviously _wanted_ to comment on it… she didn't. It was his turn to speak, now.

"Don't think we've ever been here together, have we?" he started. And he paused then, like he was either trying to decide _what_ to say or _how_ to say it, so that the implication would ring louder than the words. Or maybe it was both, simultaneously. Maybe he really _was_ a bit more distracted than he'd realized before.

All the while, though, her patience held out as she waited for him to finish.

_Patience_.

Yes, that one definitely went hand in hand with 'luck' and 'love.' Any other woman would've likely killed him by year two.

"Out of all the evenings we've shared in the last nine years," he continued, "it _does_ seem a bit crazy that we haven't tried this before. I mean, _I've_ been here. And _you've_ been here. _We've_ been here separately, with strangers and dates and spouses and such. But not together. Which just proves the adage right, I suppose. There really _is_ a first time for everything."

Cal spoke slowly… deliberately. He enunciated each word and lingered over a few, just to watch the way _her body_ reacted to what _his_ was trying to tell her, in that round-about way he probably should've patented sometime back around day ninety-three. Most other people wouldn't have noticed, but Gillian did.

Gillian _always_ did.

_You and me, love. Together. That's the way I want it to be from now on, yeah?_

When he'd finished speaking, her head tilted sideways a bit as her eyes roamed his face. And a beat later – when the penny finally dropped and his poorly hidden intention revealed itself – she grinned. "I sure as hell hope so," she countered playfully.

The pub was smoky and crowded, but she didn't seem to care. Beneath the confines of their small table, her knee brushed against his leg once… twice… and then on the third time, it lingered. And so he nursed his beer and tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss her – to _really_ kiss her, right then and there – while she drew a lone fingertip through the condensation on her water glass, making patterns as she went.

"Are you going to answer my question or not?" she said.

He would have.

He _definitely_ would have.

But cognizant thought had opted to take a backseat to unrepentant interest, as he studied the faint blush that colored the pale skin below her throat. He remembered seeing it before, on the morning he'd brought her that God-awful pumpkin coffee and they'd flirted in her office. The tint was deeper then, but the scope was wider now, and he thought maybe… just maybe… there were dozens of different ways in which her arousal might show.

_(He made a mental note to start counting them.)_

"Fate," she continued. "In any form, I mean. Not just the big stuff. Not just the sappy 'love at first sight' thing that happens in the movies. I'm talking about any kind of fate. Even this. You and me – right here, right now. So tell me, Cal. Do you think fate had a hand in us or… not?"

Her breathing grew shallow as it pulsed along with the natural interplay between their bodies, until finally – just to break the tension – she cleared her throat.

Edged closer to his chair.

Pressed her knee against his leg for a _fourth_ time and then – when he was pretty bloody sure he'd faint if she continued leading them down this particular path – she took that lone, wet fingertip that had been tracing her glass… and placed it directly onto his forearm, where she resumed the gesture along the inked shapes that marked his skin.

And while he had no bloody idea where this little game had come from, one thing was a certainty: Gillian Foster was a _natural _at it.

His mouth dropped open as his mind's eye followed the path laid out by her bravery: knee morphed into thigh, which morphed into hip, and then to waist, and ribcage, and breasts – all soft, supple skin and the glide of two steady hands that had long been eager to roam freely. A lovely image it was, indeed.

Gillian grinned as his eyes darkened, and _that particular expression_ – the satisfied little smirk she wore – made him instantly aware that he hadn't given her an answer yet. At least not a _verbal_ one.

Wait a minute… what was the question again?

"You really are distracted tonight, aren't you?" she giggled, still running her fingertip along his arm as she fought to keep her focus solely on his _face_. "It's fate. Not rocket science. So please. Enlighten me. Inquiring minds want to know."

Ah, yes. Fate.

Gillian – lovely, brilliant, beautiful Gillian – was sitting with her knee pressed against his thigh, as she flirted more brazenly than ever before and asked him questions about fate. And on the grand scale of '_Problems He Was Grateful to Have_,' this one was at the top. Because the answer itself was very simple. In fact, a single word would suffice.

A single syllable, even.

_Yes_.

But the matter of actually phrasing it in such a way as to let her know that he _did_ believe in fate without sounding like a giant softie? _That_ was the tricky bit.

_So_, he took one more quick pull of his drink… deliberately brushed the length of his thigh along the length of hers… and opened his mouth to speak.

He _opened his mouth to speak_, that is, but before even so much as a _single word_ came out, she beat him to the finish line.

"I don't _need_ the words, you know. Because I can already see the answer. It's written all over your face, no matter how hard you try to hide it. It's in your eyes. In your smile. It's right there on your lips, every time you press them against my cheek, or along the back of my hand. I see it, Cal. Just like I see the real you. It's just that sometimes…"

The pub was crowded.

They were surrounded by perfect strangers who all stared at giant television screens and cheered for their sport of choice while downing bottomless beers and fattening food. It was dirty and smoky and conspicuous. And while he _should_ have been aware of all of those things… the only clear, repetitive thought in his head was that unless one of them put the brakes on this flirting game _right fucking now_, they'd likely be getting thrown out on the street for indecent exposure, lest he take her right there on the table top.

"…_sometimes_…the words help."

_Jesus_, she was _intoxicating_. She was everything he wanted – everything he _craved_ – all wrapped up in one delicate package of sex appeal, charm, determination, and tenacity.

He'd spent the last seven _months_ shifting gears between neutral and reverse, and he'd spent the last seven _days_ obsessing about minor details like parties, costumes, and how to pull his head out of the proverbial sand… but _she_ had apparently decided (less than forty-eight hours _before_ said costume party-_slash_-'head unburying' showcase) that he was too slow.

Apparently 'fate' had a bloody good sense of humor, and an _uncanny_ knack for timing.

(Color him impressed.)

"Those words you mentioned," he said slowly. A little too slowly, actually, but it wasn't because he was still trying to stall. No, _this time_ it was because his brain wasn't getting enough blood flow to function at full capacity. A flirting _genius_, she was. "Any particular ones you're looking to hear, love?"

Gillian drew her hand away from his arm and shifted again. And he was too busy missing the feel of her fingertip against his skin to notice what she was doing with her legs until it was already in progress. Instead of shifting closer, she shifted away from him – ever-so slightly – and allowed herself just enough room to cross her long, lovely legs in a rather… _inventive_ fashion.

Ordinarily, her left leg would've fallen atop her right knee, leaving one shapely calf to land parallel along the _outside_ of his.

But, whatever deity was currently in charge of physics or gravity (or both) somehow managed to convince Gillian that since everything was well hidden beneath their table and no one could see them anyway… the best thing to do would be to drape her left leg _over_ his, so that her calf was semi-trapped _between_ his thighs.

Not parallel to the _outside_ of _one_ thigh.

But semi-trapped between the _insides_ of _both_.

He didn't know whether to count his blessings, curse his current inability to get her out of her clothes, or pretend to drop something under the table, just so he could get down on his hands and knees and explore his options properly.

(So to speak.)

In the end, though, it was Gillian's sharp intake of breath that swayed his decision: patience now, passion later, when he hoped – _mightily_ – to elicit dozens more of those _same exact gasps_.

And so he trailed his right hand up and down the length of her calf over and over and over again, memorizing the feel of her skin beneath his palm. Her bare skin. Because, see… evil genius that she was, she'd worn a skirt. An _above the knee_ skirt. To a sport's pub. On a chilly October evening. _Which_, he was certain, was absolute proof that she'd either planned this in advance, or – _or_ – that she was trying to kill him.

Sexual innuendo as a weapon. Who would've guessed?

"Fair warning, Cal," she suddenly offered. "If you keep touching me like that, then I don't think I'll have one coherent thought left in my head – which means I definitely won't be able to answer your question."

Oh, yes. That's right. His question.

Since he'd already forgotten the original, he improvised another. Which was slightly impressive, since they were both running neck-in-neck with the whole 'no coherent thoughts' situation. "Aye, aye. Someone's feeling brave this evening, yeah?" he teased.

His accent was thick, and his hand was greedy, and one of the voices in his head kept trying to insist that it was _already_ later, dammit, while the other voice – the louder one – tried to estimate just how quickly he could get them to the nearest bedroom without breaking any traffic laws. It was like Multitasking 101, for the sexually frustrated crowd.

Never in a million years did he think Gillian would see his comment as a challenge.

But she did.

She _abso-bloody-lutely_ did.

"It's about time one of us took a shot at bravery, don't you think? And since you haven't seemed to be in much of a hurry to put any of your body parts between my legs in the last seven months, _well_… I thought _I'd_ try putting one of _mine_ between _yours_."

_Three… two… one…_

Surely, he'd just died.

He'd died, and this was heaven, and he'd somehow been blessed to spend eternity with his hand on Gillian Foster's leg – listening to her make inneundos about putting parts of his body between… _oh hell_, he was a lucky, _lucky_ bastard. And if he _wasn't_ dead… if their entire conversation _was_ real, then he was doubly lucky, because that meant that all the _patience_ and _trust_ and _respect_ they held for one another was about to evolve into something _spectacular_.

Obviously pleased with herself for rendering him speechless, Gillian feigned nonchalance. "Are you _really_ going to dress up as Indiana Jones at this party?" she asked.

_Feigned_.

She'd _feigned_ nonchalance, because he knew – with certainty – that she had something else up her sleeve. Something… naughty. Some little quip that was liable to cause permanent damage to his nether regions if he didn't find some way to relieve a little pressure in the next fifteen minutes or so.

Maybe less.

So, he aimed for a completely innocent reply as he flagged their waitress down to bring the check. "Yeah, well… I really _do_ like the hat."

Had his full attention been focused on her face, he would've seen – loud and clear – exactly what sort of reply she was ready to give him. But he was fussing with his wallet, and trying to mentally recite the West Ham roster by way of a distraction, in hopes of losing a bit of… tumescence… before their walk to his car. And so the next words she spoke took him completely by surprise.

"You could always wear the hat by itself, you know," she countered. "I sure as hell wouldn't complain."

Yep, that swung the vote. Definitely less than fifteen minutes before he'd have to resort to drastic measures. Deliciously fun though it was to play this game with her – not to mention long overdue and completely, fantastically out of the blue, as far as timing went – having a wank in a public toilet wasn't exactly on his bucket list. Neither was being tossed out of a pub for indecent exposure or breaking every traffic law known to man just trying to get them somewhere private.

Which made priority number one an obvious choice: he needed to calm down. Quickly. He needed to change the subject to something that was still relevant, but decidedly less sexual in nature. Something that focused on their relationship, but not the (_hopefully_) soon-to-be naked side of it.

"What about you, Gill? This… 'appropriate' costume of yours. Will I be fighting off throngs of men just to get close to you come party time, or is it discreet enough that I'm the only one who'll understand why you chose it?"

Did he expect a straightforward answer? No, not really. Because clearly, any woman who'd describe a specially ordered Halloween costume as "appropriate" was obviously looking to maintain a bit of mystery about her choice. But. He did think she'd give him a clue or three, just to even out their playing field.

_She_ rendered his southern region semi-permanently hard with her leg crossing antics, and _he_ got a bit of insight as to her party attire. That was fair, right?

He thought so.

Gillian, however… did not.

"I'm still not telling you what I'm wearing," she said. "But I _will_ tell you that it's not at all discreet, and that _everyone_ will understand why I chose it. Including you. And don't worry. You won't have to fight off anyone, because the costume… oh, _how should I put this_? It… it… speaks for itself."

Oh, she was killing him. Absolutely killing him. Days upon days of chicken logic, teasing from the staff, filling his home with smartassed jack-o-lanterns, and trying to decide if Tom or Tony Wanker were actually real or not, and all of it somehow came to a head in a sports pub, less than forty eight hours before the First Annual Lightman Group Halloween Party – the one he was throwing in hopes of finally grasping that wonderful brass ring that had Gillian Foster's name permanently engraved upon it.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one who'd finally decided that complacency sucked.

"Does it show off your legs, then?" he asked. Stupidly. Just because those long, lovely legs were one of the only body parts to which he currently had access.

With a knowing smile, Gillian nodded. "Definitely," she answered. "Can we make a compromise so that yours shows off your arms?"

Make no mistake – that Indiana Jones costume had come with a heavy jacket and a long-sleeved button down shirt. Not exactly favorable for a tattoo viewing experience, to say the least. _But_. If Gillian wanted a compromise, then that's what he would give her.

He was a smart man, yeah? He'd improvise _the hell_ out of a last minute costume if that's what would keep that heady look of – _oh_, heaven help him – sexual interest on her face.

So he nodded, matched her challenging, flirtatious smile with one of his own, and said, "You've got brilliant legs, Gill. Absolutely dangerous, they are."

And really, that was the only point he wanted to make. He wasn't trying to steer the conversation anywhere… he wasn't trying to "up" the flirting. He simply paid her a compliment because it was true, and he wanted her to hear it. The very last thing he expected – and that was a _literal_ statement, since it really was _the very last thing he expected – _was for her to volley back with a similar comment of her own.

_Or_, that it would be accompanied by that same breathtaking, light-up-her-entire-face sort of smile he loved so much. But nevertheless, she smiled at him, and spoke his name, and his rapidly beating heart damn near _turned over_ in his chest in anticipation.

"I bet you do too, Cal. Such a shame that I never get to see them."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Fair warning, everyone: this chapter is rated M. I've tried not to make it crude or vulgar, and I *think* I succeeded, but it is really explicit. So if M isn't your thing then you'll want to skip this chapter completely. Now, since I'm very much on the shy side in real life, I'll be hiding in the corner with my hands over my face until the muse is ready to write chapter 8. **

**As always, thanks for the feedback and thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

How he'd found the presence of mind to flag down their waitress and pay their tab, Cal had no idea. All he knew was that they'd been discussing legs one second, Gillian started sprinkling words like 'thick' and 'long' into her comments the next… and then _boom_! She licked her lips and blushed, as his hand shot into the air and began waving frantically.

Check?

_Please_.

Her fingers automatically laced with his as she led him – as _she_ led _him_, not the other way around – to the door, and _every single time_ his eyes dropped _south_ of her waistline, she shot this seductive little glance over her shoulder as if to tell him that she'd felt the heat behind his gaze reach all the way through her clothing and land directly onto her naked skin.

She blushed and grinned, while he groaned and bit his lip… and both of them grumbled about how far away his Prius was parked.

By step number sixteen (yes_, he was counting – don't judge him!),_ walking had become torturous, and the simple act of _breathing_ made him groan even louder. Mostly because his overtaxed and extremely literal brain had decided that the best thing to do in the heat of the moment, was to offer a bit of internal dialogue. _So_, while his head innocently chanted "breathe _in_… and _out_, _in_… and _out_," on a constant loop, his _libido_ decided that the phrase 'in and out' _also_ provided the perfect soundtrack for a visual that wasn't _anywhere near_ as innocent as breathing.

Make no mistake, Cal Lightman was not a gentleman. Not traditionally, anyway. Granted, he could _pretend_ pretty bloody well, from time to time. He could _act_ like a gentleman, if the situation called for it. But as a general rule? Not even close. He was no stranger to one night stands… he had a bedroom repertoire that would've made most people turn a permanent shade of crimson… and he knew how to walk the fine line between sexual generosity and horny selfishness without coming off as a total wanker.

(Call it one of his many natural talents, yeah?)

_But_.

With Gillian?

He wanted to be _everything_.

Gentleman, lover, friend, partner, support system, anchor, and strength. He wanted all of it. _Simultaneously_. Wanted to bring her pleasure, peace, laughter, and joy _every single day,_ because he could. And because she deserved it. And, most importantly, because he loved her.

He _loved_ her.

Crazy that they hadn't covered that part _aloud_ yet.

From the passenger seat, Gillian gave a flirtatious little moan that came out of nowhere and made his blood pressure spike. And by the time traffic cooperated long enough to allow him a glance in her direction, he found her body language saying things his mind had only ever dared imagine could be real for them. And so his left hand clenched the wheel in a vice-like grip, as his right one flew over the shifter and blindly searched for her knee.

_Contact,_ he mused.

_Must. Have._ _Contact_.

When his rough fingers made contact with her smooth skin, Gillian's breath momentarily hitched in this tiny gasp that made Cal press even harder on the accelerator and defy every posted traffic law in the city, just to get them to her place faster. By the time his thumb and index fingers dared to venture above her knee, the speedometer had them clocked at a minimum of ten notches over the posted limit and that's when she finally spoke.

Breathily.

With an audible heat that made him want to rip every inch of her clothing off and then vault into the backseat.

"If it's all the same to you, Cal," she said, "I'd like us to make it home in one piece, okay? No blood loss and no speeding tickets. _Besides_…"

Funny how fast everything had changed. They'd built their sodding 'Line' out of titanium steel rather than simple lumber, but now that it had finally begun to implode… all bets, it seemed, were off. No more complacency. No more wasted time. And last but not least, no more asking themselves _"what if?"_

Too much time had already been wasted.

"… somehow I imagine that with you," she continued, "slow and steady will be just as much fun as fast and frantic."

_Oh_, she was killing him. _Absolutely killing him_. Granted, though, she _did_ make a valid point. He probably _ought_ to be a bit more careful with the driving, lest they wind up crossing paths with a speed trap or a cranky cop en route to her bedroom. But she'd used those words – slow and steady, fast and frantic – in the exact same tone of voice she'd used on "_thick_" and "_long_" back at the pub, and so he knew that her ulterior motives were already at work.

It was like her own genius brand of verbal foreplay that was prolonged, and brilliant, and _extremely_ effective. And if she didn't stop it soon, then he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

_(Pun intended.)_

"Fair warning, love," he finally managed. Through clenched teeth. While stroking two fingers towards the inside of her thigh. "I don't care how innocent you try to make them sound, or what kind of 'spin' you try to give them, yeah? I'm telling you _right here_ and _right now_ that if the words '_hot_,' '_wet_,' '_hard_,' or '_deep'_ come out of that beautiful mouth of yours, then I'll have no choice but to pull this car into the nearest lot, and we'll just have to take our chances with a misdemeanor."

Gillian shuddered.

She actually shuddered.

And then – _oh bloody hell_ – her knee feel open towards his searching fingers. Yes, that's right: _open_.

Meaning that she _didn't_ pull away. She _didn't_ back off. She _didn't_ dial down the flirting, or bide her time. Instead, she let her knee fall open, and she grinned lasciviously at him as she said: "What about '_please_?' Am I allowed to say that one, or is it on your list of forbidden words, too?"

_Jesus_, she smelled good; sweet and familiar, like vanilla and honey and comfort, but with this underlying spark that made his head spin and his mouth water, and…

"God, Gillian, you are _brilliant_," he said impulsively. "Wait till I get you home, yeah? Then you can say _wha_tever you want. _How_ever you want. But if you keep going at this pace, I won't have enough willpower to make it out of your driveway without giving your neighbors one hell of a good show. So. Patience, love. We've already waited for nine years. Give me nine more minutes, and I promise… you won't regret it."

* * *

'_Why'_

That was the question Cal wanted to ask aloud. The one that would've explained her bravery… her sudden shift from passive complacency into passionate seduction.

And he wanted to tell her that he was sorry for taking so long to make that shift himself. That he was sorry for not getting his _own_ complacent arse out of neutral _ages_ earlier – after Alec left, but before Dave, Clara, Poppy or any of the others had been so much as a tiny, prospective _speck_ on their romantic radars.

But they'd finally made it to her driveway, and they'd both leapt out of the car at the same time, and he _had_ been right, indeed. They hadn't even made it up the front steps before one of his hands was in her hair and the other was tugging on her hip. He spoke her name – just a soft, breathy "_Gillian_" – and then he was lost. Their mouths crashed together in a frenzy of love and lust, and it all felt so utterly _fantastic_ that he could scarcely believe he'd waited so long to kiss her properly.

_Nine years. _So much wasted time…

The hand that gripped her hip began to pull a bit, so that the length of his arousal was pleasantly trapped between them, and they both moaned simultaneously as the kiss quickly became even more intense. Tongues dueled, breath mingled and heartbeats fell into sync as seconds became minutes, and desperation grew fiercer.

Finally, it was Gillian who found the presence of mind to say – between kisses – "Let's move this inside, alright?"

_No_.

He didn't _want_ to move it, _dammit_.

He wanted to stay right there, with his tongue in her mouth and his hips pressed into hers, and besides… they were _mostly_ cloaked in darkness, right? So long as they weren't naked or breaking any ordinances, where was the harm?

"Inside, Cal," she tried again, when it became clear that he had no intention of moving. "_Please_."

Clumsily and frantically, they climbed her short flight of stairs. And when the front door was finally unlocked and Gillian turned to face him once again, the heated look in her eyes stole the air from his lungs. _Literally_. He was _literally_ breathless and knocked completely off his center by the open desire he read. Her lips were swollen, and her pupils were dilated, and her breath had started to come in forced pants, rather than in a shallow, steady stream.

_He'd_ done that to her.

_They'd_ done that _together_.

A rather mind-blowing realization it was, indeed.

One hand shot behind her back to blindly pull the key from the lock, and the other pulled at his shirt with such force that he stumbled against her and nearly allowed gravity to knock them both to the ground. But he recovered quickly and kicked the door closed behind them as a single thought rang through his lust-glazed mind: _Privacy_.

_Finally_, they'd found sweet, sweet privacy.

Her bag and coat dropped to the floor as she kicked off her shoes and tugged his shirt out of his pants. And when she tilted her head upward in open invitation, his hungry lips eagerly claimed her throat.

She moaned at the contact, making tiny, whimpering cries that drove him insane and made him want to press his lips along every inch of her skin _over _and_ over _and_ over _again, just to learn what places drove her wild. They had time to explore each other, now. A whole lifetime of it, in fact. And he'd be damned if he let even a _second_ go to waste.

When the moans turned into a long, drawn out "_Cal_," he dragged his lips _away_ from her throat and raised his head to look into her eyes once again. And _then_ he remembered what she'd said about words. That sometimes… they helped. The right ones, anyway.

He'd _listened_.

He'd _heard_ her.

And there was no way he could consummate the sexual part of their relationship without first telling her those three short, all-important words he should've said ages ago. Because none of his fantasies about life with Gillian – _romantic_ life with Gillian – involved a 'temporary' status. They were all permanent. _All_ of them. Every single one. Making love, holding hands, laughing together, curling up in bed, sitting in front of a fire, sharing holiday traditions… kissing and cooking and traveling and working. In Cal's mind, they'd always been "_forever_."

And _"forever"_ began with love.

So he smiled, framed her face in his palms and said… "I had no idea that it was possible to fall this deeply in love with someone until I met you, Gill, and…"

He wasn't finished.

Actually, he wasn't even _close_ to finished.

He'd planned an entire speech in his head, filled with descriptions of how much he loved her… how perfect she was… how he wanted to become a better man, because he knew that's what she deserved. But she cut him off mid-sentence and he could _feel_ her smiling against his lips as their mouths crashed together again.

Her kisses were soft and sensual, in this _oh-so_ perfect way that made his knees weak. And he groaned into her mouth and ran his hands all along the length of her spine, acutely aware of how bloody fantastic she felt beneath his palms. Clichéd though he knew it sounded, it seemed as though his hands had been _custom-made_ to fit her body.

"I love you too," she said between kisses. "_So damned much_."

Make no mistake, Cal would've had no complaints at all if she'd hauled him straight to the floor and gotten right down to business. But he was not as young as he used to be, and carpeting – while wonderful for many things – did _not_ get along well with aging knees and friction. So when she began to lead him through the living room and down the hall towards her bedroom, he _was_, admittedly, relieved. He wanted to do things properly… to treat her right… to take his time and show her – _in detail_ – just exactly how much he loved her. And then he wanted to do it again, because as far as he was concerned, bringing her off just once wasn't near enough.

_He really was a greedy bastard sometimes, yeah?_

They moved quickly, and by the time they stood in the semi-darkness of Gillian's bedroom, Cal said what he knew – _without question_ – was one of the most oddly-timed things that had ever popped into his brain. They were still kissing. Her tongue was doing this _marvelous_ little thing against the roof of his mouth, and she'd already begun working to rid him of his shirt, and out of _nowhere_ he mumbled, "I had a plan, you know. A _really_ bloody good one."

_Kiss, kiss._

Oh, he was such a horny idiot. But he didn't have much time to care, because his shirt was on the floor a second later, and Gillian grinned openly at the sight of his naked chest. She mapped the newly exposed skin with eager fingertips and said, "I'm sure you did. But I've spent the last seven long, lonely months in this bed wishing you were in it with me, so trust me, Cal: your plan is taking way too damned long. Let me take the lead tonight. And then _tomorrow_, we can pick right back up with whatever that sexy brain of yours has up its sleeve. I'll still be there with you – right by your side, waiting to see the end result. But this way… we'll both be a lot more satisfied in the meantime."

_Sexy_.

_Holy hell_, she just called him _sexy_.

In actual _words_, and _not_ – as she'd done almost a year earlier – with just her face.

Cal's head was spinning, and his heart was pounding, and Gillian pulled at his neck again to bring his mouth back to hers. They met with a long, low groan as his palms skated down past her hips and over her backside, and then he groaned again, because… _wow_.

What he'd said years earlier, about how badly he wanted her? '_In the worst possible way_?' Well, _that_ particular phrasing _paled_ in comparison to the way he currently felt, and he decided that if he didn't get out of his pants soon, there might be permanent damage to his nether regions. It felt as though every sexual urge he'd ever had in his entire _life_ had suddenly balled together in one pulsating, eager knot that was now sitting inside his body and just waiting for the chance to pour itself into hers.

He positively _ached_.

Gillian awkwardly pulled her mouth from his and dropped her hands to the hem of her own sweater, before pulling it up and off. Forcefully. As if the bloody thing had committed an unforgivable sin just by separating his bare skin from hers for even a _tenth_ of a second. A heartbeat later, his hands found the clasp of her bra and he unfastened it eagerly. And as she took a half step backwards to slide the delicate garment off her body, his heart slowed down just enough to remind him that he could look at her, now. He was _allowed_. This wasn't a fantasy anymore, and she loved him just as much as he loved her, and he could _look… touch… taste…explore_… do things to make her scream his name and shudder in delight, and _fuck_ was he glad she was wearing a skirt.

(Pants would've taken too long.)

"So _beautiful_," he breathed, as his hungry hands palmed her breasts.

Now, under different circumstances, he would've said more. He _wanted_ to say more. But she'd made quick work of his pants, and they were already sliding over his arse and down to the floor, and really… conscious thought took a backseat to the _overwhelming_ desire to get her out of her skirt.

A beat later, when his eyes finally focused on the long-awaited sight of her body standing before him, clad in only panties and a smile, he actually began to _twitch_. Because "beautiful" hadn't done her justice at all. She was absolutely gorgeous. So perfect for him that he could hardly believe she was real, or that it was _his_ hands – his lucky_, lucky _hands – that were reaching between them to slide the lavender lace down and off.

Trust him, he'd never wanted a woman so badly in _his entire life._

"_Jesus, _Gillian… I…"

_I love you. I'll do anything to make you happy. I'll try my best not to fuck things up for us, and I'll use my words, and I'll never take you for granted._

Those were the things he wanted to say. But he was so overwhelmed by the thought of what was finally about to happen between them, that the words got tangled in his throat and he couldn't shake them loose."

"…I…"

Gillian smiled up at him from beneath heavy lashes as she lifted his palm to her lips and kissed it gently. "It's okay, Cal," she said slowly. "I already _know_."

He didn't remember who'd done it or how fast, but by the time she breathed out those few words, his briefs were gone and he could _not_ get his body close enough to hers to satisfy either one of them. That _ache_, it seemed, was a reciprocal thing.

Gillian's bed was large, and they landed in its center in a tangle of limbs and desire, then playfully warred for dominance to see which one of them would – quite literally – come out on top. Cal won. She was pinned beneath his body, arching up in all the right places as his mouth worked a trail southward, from her jaw, to her throat, to her breasts, where he _finally_ paused long enough to suckle her eagerly as she gasped his name. And he decided, right then and there, that it was the most erotic thing he'd ever heard.

"Oh, _Cal_…"

Soon enough, her hands were in his hair and he was drifting further down her body, covering every square inch with hungry lips and an eager tongue as she writhed against the mattress and whimpered tiny, mewling cries that only served to spur him on.

"_Please_…"

Since the days and nights they spent together, back when she was kind enough to nurse him back to health after his accident, he dreamed of this moment – in _exactly_ this way – no fewer than five hundred times. This bed… this woman… _this love_. And in his head, it had always been magic.

But in reality?

It was all so much _better_.

When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, Gillian's hands tightened expectantly in his hair. She pulled it in fistfuls – not enough to hurt, but just enough to let him know that she was just as desperate to _receive_ his touch as he was to _give_ it. With four short words – "_I need you, Gillian_" – she parted her legs in a way that instantly made him grow even harder, and he lowered his mouth over her, letting his fingers work in tandem with lips and tongue as every ounce of love, devotion, passion, and desire he felt for her came pouring out simultaneously.

He worked steadily. Didn't rush. Instinctively knew when to press her forward, and when to bring her back from the edge of pleasure and wait just long enough to let her delight build anew, before spiking it into a crescendo with a well-timed curl of his fingers or insistent swipe of his tongue.

She cried his name. She panted and moaned and took fistfuls of the sheet in her hands, and then _finally_ – when neither one of them could take the sweet, _sweet_ torture for even a single second longer, and he felt her thighs begin to tremble steadily along either side of his head – he brought her over the edge. And it was a long, drawn out release that had her tightening around his fingers in a grip that made his eyes roll back in his head at the thought of how _fantastic_ they'd _both_ feel when certain _other_ body parts finally joined the party.

He rode out her release with gentle kisses and patient strokes, and a moment later – when she drew in sharp, aching breaths and began to pull at his shoulders – he surged up her body, eager to drive inside her before the sweet fluttering of her walls had a chance to grow still.

But _Gillian_, however, had other ideas.

Seamlessly, she maneuvered him onto his back and climbed on top of his hips as every conscious thought in his head turned to mush and was replaced by one single, overwhelming truth: "I love you," he breathed, keeping his eyes locked with hers as she grasped the base of his length and he felt the tip brush against the welcoming, wet heat of her core. "I love you _so damned much_."

Cal's eyes did not leave her face as she finally – _oh, _bloody hell,_ finally_ – sank down on him, inch by deliciously slow inch, until he was buried as deep inside her as it was possible to go. She bit her lip… cried his name… clutched at his bicep with one hand, as the other stayed planted low on his stomach for balance. And he'd never, _ever _experienced something so fantastically exhilarating as the blissful collision of her body with his. Everything felt so _tight_ and _hot_ and indescribably _perfect_, and she looked so erotically _beautiful_ writhing above him, framed by a scant bit of moonlight and the flush of satisfaction, that if he'd been a younger man – one who wasn't so desperate to fully please her – he probably would've come in a matter of seconds.

Gillian smiled down at him and rolled her hips in quick, successive arcs that caused tiny fragments of light to dance behind lids Cal didn't remember closing. She was teasing him. Building her own steady rhythm and doing exactly what he'd done to her – taking him right to the edge, and then slowing down just enough to delay the gratification that they both desperately needed. And on the third time she did it, seven words he'd only ever heard in his fantasies floated breathily from _her lips_ to _his ears_.

"You feel _so good _inside me, Cal."

He'd been pretty proud of his self-control up until that point. He'd been stroking her breasts and thrusting his hips _up_ in time with the rhythm she'd created, and until she said those seven _brilliant_ words, Cal could've happily spent the rest of his life flat on his back in the center of Gillian's bed, just watching her face as she made love to him.

_But_.

Those words reverberated around all of his hard won self-control, until every breath… every stroke… every touch of her body against his made him feel as though he were goddamned _invincible_, and suddenly he wasn't satisfied with simply watching her from below. _No, no_ – he wanted to drive his rock-hard enthusiasm deep inside of her _again_ and _again_ and _again_, until the only truth either one of them knew was sexual fulfillment and the overwhelming joy of unconditional love.

He shifted them quickly. Resumed the timing of the rhythm she'd set. Put the proverbial finish line in his sights and became desperate to drive her across it for a second time, so he could feel that delicious, pulsating grip ripple up and down every inch of his shaft as she shuddered in ecstasy beneath him.

Gillian's hands clutched at his hips as they began to pump faster and faster. She raised her knees as high as they would go… raked her nails down his back… lifted herself up to pepper his entire face with kisses as he searched for that one magical spot that he knew would make her see stars. And when he _finally_ found it – when his strokes became so deep and forceful that he was half afraid he might actually _hurt_ her – she threw her head back against the pillows and shouted a string of breathy curses that began and ended with his name.

"… _please don't stop…"_

A beat later, her eyes locked with his. Her pupils dilated fully as she drew in a sharp, forceful breath _and then held it_, as her jaw dropped open in a silent scream. And that's when he felt it. The indescribably wonderful feeling of her body clamping down on his again, and again, and again, as she struggled to hold him in place. It was so overwhelming… so deliriously erotic… that _his_ mouth dropped open in a scream that was not silent _at all_, and he pushed himself inside her as fast and deep as his body would allow.

"… _I love you…"_

She was moaning up at him, and stroking his damp forehead with trembling fingertips as he felt the tiny ripples of her aftershocks squeeze around him in intermittent bursts. And still, he did not let go. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to stay right there in her bed, making love to her until his body either failed him completely or until every last ounce of passion he possessed had been exhausted.

Nine years. He'd spent nine long, amazing, _brilliant_ years wondering if they'd ever get to this point, and now that they had… he didn't want their first time to end so soon.

His libido, though, had other ideas.

Because within moments of her second release, Cal felt the unmistakable beginnings of number three start to wrap around his manhood in wicked, wicked ways. She squeezed and shouted and clutched at his body as she peaked again, and the look on her face – the one that was the _very picture_ of perfect love – finally flipped that tiny switch in the back of his brain that told him to let go. That he was safe. That Gillian loved him, and that she wasn't going anywhere. Not now, and not ever.

And so he thrust forward once… twice… three times more, before finally feeling sweet release pour through his body in wave after wave that shook him from head to toe and made him collapse upon her chest in a sweaty, exhausted heap.

He was positively _spent_.

"Am I crushing you?" he mumbled. Face down. With his lips mashed against her sternum, so that the words sounded half-garbled and entirely stupid. But he honestly couldn't help himself, because he was _definitely_ not twenty-five years old anymore, and his body felt as though it might make a retaliatory strike if he made any more sudden movements.

"Because I can move," he continued. With a pitiful little sigh. "Eventually, I mean. I can move _eventually_. Just give me a minute or fifteen, and then I'll just roll…"

Her hands clutched at his arse mid-sentence, and he felt her mouth curl into a grin as she tugged at his tired hips. "Please stay," she said simply. "For a minute, or five, or fifteen – whatever you need. I _like_ the way you feel, alright? It's… _comforting_. And safe. And I _do_ happen to love you, so as far as I'm concerned…"

It was the last sentence that did it; the one that made his head snap _up_, as his body finally remembered how to function again. He looked into her face and brushed damp fingertips along her hairline, smiling down at her as she blinked away a single tear. He caught it with his thumb, then lowered his lips to kiss her softly. And even though he could feel himself beginning to soften inside of her, he couldn't bring himself to pull away quite yet.

"As far as you're concerned… _what_, Gill?" he prompted.

She waited a beat.

Then a second.

And then a brand new smile bloomed on her face as she answered him honestly. "This moment? Right here, with you? It's the happiest I've ever been in my whole life."

* * *

**A/N: Phew! And just in case you were wondering, they are absolutely still doing the costume party. Gill's costume is still amazing, Cal's is not a chicken suit, and that's all coming as soon as I can manage it! :)**

**(Also... just wanted to give a second shout-out to Dee for letting me use her line about Cal's plan taking too long. Thank you!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Holy cow, guys - you have blown my mind with the support for this story. I seriously can't thank you enough! I'll keep the updates coming as regularly as I can, and that's a promise. :) This chapter has a strong T rating but doesn't cross into M. However, there is one tiny section where the imagery gets a bit... um... risqué, I think. And as a whole, this installment is fluffy. Very, very fluffy. Hope you all enjoy!**

**(Special thanks again to Dee for letting me borrow one of her ideas and lines again. Hugs to you, my friend!)**

* * *

Ordinarily, Cal was not an early riser. He always struggled to get out of bed in the mornings… hit the snooze alarm more times than any one man probably should… and grumbled his way through the shower-shave-breakfast routine (sometimes skipping step number two entirely) like a disoriented grizzly bear. And on most days, he didn't start feeling like an actual human being until the tail end of his first cup of caffeine.

_But_.

_Ordinarily_, he didn't spend entire nights making love to Gillian, either. And so the morning after their brilliant "first night" together was a little bit… _different_, to say the least. Grumpiness and grogginess were replaced by a satisfied, satiated energy that began somewhere in his toes and radiated upward, pooling at the place where her lovely back met his bare chest.

Oh, his body was positively _humming_.

He'd held her in his arms… whispered sweet nothings and solemn promises into her ear until nearly sunrise… drifted off to sleep with her head on his chest, and the scent of her perfume in the air, and with absolute _relief_ in his heart at the knowledge that they were finally together. He loved her, and she loved him, and sappy though he knew it sounded… Cal couldn't help but think that '_Happily Ever After' _had one hell of a brilliant beginning.

He was awake just before sunrise. And instead of grumbling and groaning when Gillian's alarm clock finally sounded, he simply reached across her naked torso to silence it, then pulled her even tighter against his bare chest and nuzzled his lips against the shell of her ear.

She fit perfectly against him; all soft, delicate lines and limitless possibilities. And as his breath warmed her skin, her head automatically angled up and back to give his mouth easier access to her neck. The movement was so simple – so _candid_ – that it caused a little 'tug' in his gut when he realized just how satisfying a life spent loving Gillian was about to become.

So he smiled against her skin, sent a silent 'thank-you' to whatever deity had decided that he was worthy of having a woman like her in his arms, and said the first thing that popped into his brain.

"Morning, love. Sleep well?"

_Not that they'd allowed much time for sleeping._

She arched into his touch and he could practically _feel_ her body answer, even before her mouth gave voice to the words. "_Very_ well," she replied, exaggerating the first word with a breathy little giggle that made him squeeze one hand against the curve of her hip.

Fingers curling against her lean muscles, he dropped one… two… three gentle kisses on the back of one shoulder, then worked his way back toward her ear. And in truth, he wasn't _deliberately_ trying to start things back up again. Not really. Not when they'd only had a scant bit of sleep, and his forty-_whatever_ year old body was still giving him hell for the marathon performance he'd put it through between the hours of dusk and round five.

Yes, that's right: _five_.

He aimed to please.

Gillian shifted against him, twining their legs while arching her chest outward in silent invitation. And because he wasn't one to look a gift fondle in the mouth, he ignored the protests from his overworked thigh muscles and decided that if round six kicked off before breakfast, then he'd gladly get… creative.

"Pleasant dreams, then?" he breathed.

Slowly… steadily… his fingertips ghosted upward as he waited for her reply, and just before his right hand closed around her breast, she turned in his arms and looked up at him with a beautiful smile. "You mean this isn't one of them?" she playfully quipped. "Let's see, now:_ You_. _Me_. _Naked_. _Together_. In my _bed_. After a full night of _really amazing sex_. Believe me, Cal – I've had this exact scenario in my head for so long now, I thought maybe I just hadn't woken up yet."

'_Really amazing sex.'_

Lord help him, Gillian Foster had just used the phrase _'really amazing sex'_ about _him_. About _them_. About their _relationship_. And honestly, if his hands hadn't been so distracted by the delicious softness of her warm skin, then he probably would have pinched himself. Nine years of chicken-shit complacency had culminated in the most amazing night he'd ever spent with a woman in his entire life, and his brain was still struggling to wrap itself around the brand new reality that was "Cal and Gillian," and not – as it had always been before – "Cal" and "Gillian."

_(Trust him, there was a very big difference.)_

Cal smiled against her skin, as his mouth brushed across her jaw… her cheekbones… and then, finally, her lips. "It does feel like a dream, yeah?" he said between kisses. His movements were slow and precise, yet passionate. And when Gillian spoke again, the smile in her voice warmed him from head to toe.

"Feels incredible," she answered. She traced the band on his bicep with a single fingertip, then quirked one eyebrow in a playful tease. "_So far_, everything with you feels incredible."

Instantly, Cal caught the nearly imperceptible change in her voice. The one that told him she was _definitely_… up to something.

"Aye, aye – _so far_?" he echoed, running one lazy hand up the length of her spine. "Should I take that as a challenge, then?"

Gillian grinned. "Tell you what. Give me an honest answer to a few simple questions, and then you can interpret my words any way you want. Deal?"

Without hesitation, he grinned right back. "Abso-bloody-lutely."

She shifted methodically, until there was a slight bit more distance between their bodies. Then she propped herself up on one elbow and peered down at his face with a soft, open expression he hadn't seen in… well, ever. Love, arousal, cheekiness, and good, old-fashioned curiosity: each of those emotions – among others he couldn't even think to name – flickered across her features in rapid succession made him absolutely positive that the questions she was about to ask would lead to one hell of a game changer.

No matter, though. He was more than ready to play by a new set of rules.

"Last night," she started. And then she blushed ever so slightly, in this semi-innocent way that made him want to throw her back down onto the mattress and –

"You mentioned something about a plan. Remember?"

_Of course he did_. He remembered _everything_.

So he nodded silently and schooled his features just enough to let her see _most_ of what she wanted, but not all. He _was_ Cal Lightman, after all. Certain habits died harder than others. "'Course I do, love."

"I told you that your plan was taking too long, but that we'd pick it back up today because I wanted to see what your brain…"

With the tiniest growl, Cal interrupted her. "…you said my '_sexy_ brain,' if memory serves," he corrected. Just because he _could_. Just because she'd left that one word out deliberately, and scoundrel that he was, he wanted to hear her say it again.

_(So sue him, yeah?)_

She indulged him with a playful tousle to his hair and a quick kiss on his lips, and then said, "I wanted to see what your _sexy_ brain had up its sleeve. So please. _Tell me_. That plan of yours: I assume it centers around this little Halloween party you're throwing, right?"

Now, Cal Lightman knew Gillian Foster very, very well. And the way he saw it, he had two direct options: he could either answer her question like a mature, forty-_whatever_ year old man and move on with the morning in a rather creative (_read: sexual_) fashion, or… he could push her buttons and tease her a little bit, just to keep things interesting.

And since she _was_ still quite naked and pressed almost completely against him, he chose path number two: button pushing and gameplay. So he pretended to think much too hard about what she'd said, and then finally – when the look she shot him bordered on annoyance – he danced his fingertips towards her hip again and said, "Does that count as all your questions, Gill, or is it just a lead-in for the big guns you're still waiting to unleash?"

In any other setting, she might have been irritated. But he'd made his voice at least three times more gravely, then capped it with an accent that was twice as thick as normal; so it was safe to say that she paid less attention to _what_ he said, and more attention to _how_ he said it.

The translation? She wasn't irritated. She was… _aroused_.

_Game. Set. Match._

Oh, he was a happy, _happy_ man.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she began to speak, and he watched her breath briefly catch in her throat. "I'm just… curious, alright," she started. "About this party, and what it all might mean for us. In that brand new, 'big picture' kind of way. Because I find it extremely… _telling_… that your costume choice just-so happens to come equipped with a whip and a rope, when you _still_ haven't let me live down that whole _'I've always wanted to be tied up' _comment I made so long ago."

A beat later – when the weight of her comment hit him squarely in the groin – Cal bit back a groan and flexed his fingers on her hip once again. Because that budding arousal he'd seen on her face was now spreading like wildfire and about to ignite everything around them in a white hot flame.

_Funny_.

He'd been drawn to that Indiana Jones costume for exactly two reasons: _One_, because it was just regular clothes with a few well-placed extras that weren't completely ridiculous. And _two_, because he hoped _the hat_ it included might remind her of their night on the balcony when they'd almost toppled down onto the concrete and crossed every line that had ever been drawn.

Neither the rope nor the whip had swung the decision in the slightest.

But now that she'd mentioned it – while naked – his brain had reached full-on 'Horny Mode,' and he was fully fixated by certain… _images_… as to how he could use that aforementioned rope in a way that would fulfill an entire lifetime's worth of her naughty fantasies.

_Bloody hell._

With a knowing smile, Gillian dropped a fleeting kiss to his lips and lightly stroked her knuckles over his chest. Try as he might, he simply couldn't hide his inner bad boy for long. Lucky for both of them, she seemed to like that side of his personality just as much as most of the others.

_(Color him both amazed and goddamn lucky.)_

"So I assume this was your end goal, then?" she softly continued. "You and I? Like this?"

Her questions were deceptively simple. And as old habits reared their heads to try and tempt him into dodging the truth, Cal realized that _everything_ with Gillian had lived in that same, in-between place for as long as he could remember. They were _simple_… yet _complex_. _Scary_… yet _safe_. _Thrilling_… yet _familiar_. _And_ – last but certainly not least - _comforting_, yet _indescribably_ passionate. The perfect balance of everything he'd ever wanted to find with a woman.

And with that – as that final, sappily romantic thought flooded his mind – Cal's previously unfiltered horniness dialed itself down by half, in a way that led romance to meld with desire and absolute truth.

That deal he'd made? The one about giving an honest answer to a few simple questions?

He was about to uphold his end of it in a _major_ way.

_Deep breath… steady hand… open heart._

With a voice that was both unwavering and filled with emotion, Cal finally answered. "Hate to burst your bubble, Gill, but no. You and I falling into bed together was not my plan."

_Surprise. Confusion. Fear._

_Those_ were the emotions he instantly read on Gillian's face, as she struggled to find words of her own. Finally settling on three, she edged slowly away from him. "Then what was?"

One beat passed. Then a second. And on the third – when he finally decided he'd been an irrefutable idiot for not speaking them sooner – fifteen hard-fought words tumbled past his lips and landed directly onto hers.

"You and I forever, love. It was you and I forever. _That_ was the plan."

* * *

An hour later – after taking full advantage of the fact that two grown adults could comfortably fit into one shower, when properly motivated – Cal and Gillian sat down at the kitchen table to refuel. Coffee, tea, scrambled eggs, and toast: a breakfast of champions, if ever he'd seen one. _She_ joked that he ought to get one of those sexy little aprons to keep at her house… _he_ vowed to think of at least a dozen ways to get her to use that word on him more often… and they _both_ decided it was probably best to sleep in separate quarters until after Emily returned to California at the end of the weekend.

After nine years apart and only one night together, surely they could handle that much.

_Right_?

Her plane was scheduled to land mid-morning on Friday, then depart mid-afternoon on Sunday. So that was… what? Slightly more than two days of no sex, after spending nearly ten straight hours indulging in it (naps aside)?

No problem.

_(At least in theory.)_

By the time the breakfast dishes were cleared, Cal had gotten so distracted by his mental to-do list and his excitement over seeing Emily again, that he'd nearly forgotten all about costumes, parties, and the fact that it still looked like a Halloween supply store exploded in his foyer. Preparedness was certainly not in his wheelhouse, as far as social events were concerned. He wasn't one of those people who bought holiday gifts before Thanksgiving, or special ordered birthday cakes a month in advance, or did much decorating at all. And even when he _did_, it had never been the plastic, smartassed jack-o-lantern kind, complete with portable fog machine and three dozen varieties of crepe paper streamers.

As far as holidays went, he was understated. Minimalistic. Rather scrooge-tastic, actually.

And so he was _not_ prepared for the flash of Halloween related brilliance that flooded his imagination when Gillian touched his face.

_That's right_. All she did was touch his face and make one innocent comment, and _poof_! He was practically gobsmacked by the proverbial light bulb that began to glow above his head.

"_The one I bought is fine, I guess. It fits. I don't hate it. It has a hat, and a whip, and a rope, too. Indiana Jones, yeah? So unless a better idea falls into my lap in the next four days, then I'll wear it. But see, here's the thing: all of "this" isn't exactly my comfort zone, yeah? Parties and holidays and social events. I don't "do" social very often, and I _absolutely_ don't do them while in costume. But _you_ love these things, Gill. You always have. And really, that's the whole reason I'm doing this in the first place – to make you happy. _So_. That smile you get, when you talk about how perfect and "appropriate" your choice is? Well, if there's anything that I can do – or anything that I can _wear_ – to make that smile stay on your face even ten seconds longer, then I'll do it. Gladly."_

Trust him, those comments had been truthful. They weren't exaggerated or overstated, just because they sounded good. They were real. As was his intention to make her happy.

_So_, when _he_ casually followed up on her comment from the pub and asked if his legs had lived up to her expectations… and _she_ said '_yes_,' then framed his face in her hands to compliment the sexiness of his whiskers (_that was three times, already!_) that bulb came into play.

It flickered timidly at first, but a beat later – when she scratched her fingertips along his rough, stubbly jaw and said, "I think it looks… _athletic_" – its light began to glow.

Athletic.

Now, it's very safe to say that in all of his years, no woman had ever referred to Cal Lightman as athletic. Smug, cocky, brave, ridiculous, ruggedly handsome? _Yes_, he'd gotten all of those before. But athletic? _No_, that was a first. And while he had no idea _why_ she'd ever think that stubble could, in fact, look that way – lest of all on him – he was knocked completely on his arse (_figuratively speaking_) by the brilliant smile that bloomed on her face as she touched his rough jaw. Ridiculous as it likely sounded, Gillian was looking at him like she was seconds away from shoving him down onto the tabletop and doing her best to steal his breath.

_However_…

Before she had a chance to actually do anything to him physically… while the proverbial mental light bulb burned strong and steady as a loose plan began to form… she made an offhand comment about his tattoos, and he was gone. Subtlety flew out the window as his idea continued to cement itself piece by piece, and he slowly backed her toward the nearest wall.

"So let me get this straight, love," he smugly began. "If you were to select the ideal costume for me to wear tomorrow night, it would include athletic whiskers, show my legs, and allow you to see most of the ink on my arms, yeah?"

Call him greedy, but he wanted her to say that word again. Sexy. He wanted to hear it shoot out of her beautiful mouth for a fourth time, and if (or when) it did, then he'd have absolute confirmation that he was about to make the right choice as far as his… attire… was concerned.

And so he waited. Nudged her backwards even further, until her body softly collided with the wall and he could press against her in all the right places. A beat later, she trailed a single hand up his forearm and outlined the design with one manicured nail. "Athletic and leg-showing, with visible inkage, yes," she said shyly. "Don't get me wrong, Cal… Indy is appealing own its own. But the sight of your body wearing something daring on the outside, to match the fire you always carry on the inside? Now _that_ would be sexy as hell."

Cal grinned. _Lasciviously_. Because she really _had_ said it four times. One, two, three, four – _count them!_ And he now knew exactly what to wear, what to say, how to act – _everything_ – to prove that he absolutely would do anything to make her smile. Trust him to leave her hanging with just a hint of smart-arsery, though.

(It was just in his nature.)

"Well, then," he sighed playfully. "That rules out ice hockey, racecar driving, and American Football. But no worries, love. I'm sure I'll think of something, yeah?"

* * *

**To be continued...**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Apologies for the delay with updating this one. There's a pretty big clue about Cal's costume towards the end of this chapter, though, so I'm hoping that will make up for it. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!**

* * *

_Cal grinned. _Lasciviously_. Because she really _had_ said it four times. One, two, three, four – _count them!_ And he now knew exactly what to wear, what to say, how to act – _everything_ – to prove that he absolutely would do anything to make her smile. Trust him to leave her hanging with just a hint of smart-arsery, though._

_(It was just in his nature.)_

"_Well, then," he sighed playfully. "That rules out ice hockey, racecar driving, and American Football. But no worries, love. I'm sure I'll think of something, yeah?"_

* * *

Emily's plane landed right on schedule, roughly twenty-eight hours before Cal's costume party was scheduled to begin. And ordinarily, that would've given him plenty of time to throw the last few details together before Gill's arrived the next morning to – and he used this term loosely – "decorate." But now that he'd finally decided that Indiana Jones was _out_, and a leg baring, tattoo showing, athletic type of outfit was _in_, well… he was in a huge bloody hurry to find all of the necessary bits and pieces and make sure they all still fit.

And yes, the key word there was "_find_." Because truth be told, he hadn't seen the main part of the outfit in _oh_… say, four years. No pressure there, right? It was in the house. Likely in a closet. Likely in the _back_ of a closet, even. Trouble was, he had no bloody clue _which one_. And with every wasted moment that ticked away, Cal felt more like a rooster who'd gone headless, and less like one who was trying to perform the final few movements in a tidbitting dance.

Grace under fire, he was _not_.

(In this case, at least.)

So, after a small snafu at baggage claim resulted in fifteen lost minutes, twelve uses of the word "bloody," and three semi-serious promises to shove his boot up someone's arse if they did not find his daughter's suitcase "right bloody now" (_make that thirteen uses_), Cal sped off towards his house with Emily riding shotgun, and said a silent prayer that he'd be able to dodge her not-so subtle hints that he _had_, in fact, gone crazy.

Because he _hadn't_.

Not yet.

"I swear I'm not crazy, yeah?" he volunteered preemptively. "I'm just… trying to beat the clock, that's all. Because you and I _both_ know that sometime between dawn and noon tomorrow, Gillian is going to take it upon herself to turn the entire first floor of our house into something straight out of Burton's "Halloween Town," but with smiley touches, rather than the mostly-dead variety. Tricked me into buying a fog machine, she did. And streamers. And tabletop confetti. And some sort of semi-maniacal Cheshire Cat-esque grinning pumpkin punch bowl that I swear to you, love – _I swear_ – is possessed by a cross between that Bellatrix woman in Harry Potter, and some type of intellectually challenged cat."

Now trust him, if Cal had been the one sitting in the passenger seat – gripping what had long ago been termed the "oh shit" handle up near the header, as he took every single turn too sharply, just to shave a few seconds off their commute – well then… _he_ probably would've made that face, too. The one that bloody well screamed, "_That's it, folks. He's finally lost his mind. Send in the straightjacket and the padded cell, because things are about to get interesting_."

And yes, he did sound a bit like a loon. He knew that. Owned it proudly. What was one more feather in his cap, yeah? It balanced out the 'smartass' plumes rather nicely, he thought.

_But_.

What Emily did _not_ know was that his happiness – his life-changing, _'why-in-bloody-hell-did-we-wait-this-long'_ happiness – was so overwhelmingly strong, that it was steadily creeping into the areas of his brain that controlled basic things. Like breathing, and driving, and speaking coherently. In other words, he was a goner. And if that four year old item of clothing _was_, in fact, too tight, then he needed time to "rig" something together so that it fit around his forty-_whatever_ year old waist.

No harm in being prepared, now was there?

_So_, he ignored Emily's insensitive suggestion that he must've fallen head-first into some sort of psychotic break, thanks to that comparison between Harry Potter films, a feline, and a punch bowl… tried to busy his mind by doing a mental inventory of each of the closets in his house… and then finally, as they pulled into the driveway in one piece and without any speeding tickets, he turned toward his daughter and asked a rather random question.

"Emily, love, tell me… do you know how to sew?"

* * *

When closets one through three turned up nothing, Cal recruited reinforcements. He was getting desperate, and rather than continue to dodge Emily's curiosity with half-truths like "_I'm just looking for part of my costume_," he put her to work. Asked if she'd please help him look for a small red duffel bag that was, "Sort of heavy, but not awkwardly so, with a brown luggage tag on one handle."

It was just vague enough to keep her from ridiculing the bejesus out of him, yet descriptive enough to cement the whole "I'm not crazy" idea and buy him a little bit of time until he was ready for the big reveal.

Well played, yeah?

He bloody well thought so.

"You know, dad," Emily sighed, after coming up empty with closet number four. "When I pictured the two of us spending time quality together on my first night home from Berkley, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I thought we'd make homemade pizza… maybe eat a little Thai food… then I'd dodge eighty-seven questions about my social life while trying _not_ to compare your relationship with Gillian to any kind of bird mating ritual. That's our version of normal, sadly enough."

_True_.

But he was knee-deep (literally) in the fallout from closet number five, and rather than take time to answer her in actual words, he merely grunted… pulled a few boxes off of the center shelf… and sat back on his haunches with a sigh of temporary defeat. So far, this plan wasn't working at all.

"But this?" she continued. "Pulling random stuff out of each and every closet in our house, when you won't even tell me what we're trying to find? It's insane, dad. As in, well beyond your usual scope of insanity. Which is saying a lot. And it makes me think that maybe we should call Gill over here to supervise you first hand. After all, she'd know exactly what we're looking for without the need of those pesky words you seem to hate so much. Would save us both a lot of time and headache pills that way, don't you think?"

And granted, she did have a point. A very accurate, very valid point. But Gillian would ask too many questions, and he wouldn't be ready to provide any answers (call it payback for all of the not-so helpful hints about her "perfect" costume choice), and the evening was still young. He wouldn't be ready to throw in the proverbial towel until sometime around closet number nine _at least_.

"Besides," she continued. "Gill and I have been chatting about this party since the morning after you decided to throw it. I know about the decorations… about the food… about how Torres can't decide between a superhero or a super villain, and how Loker is half convinced that you're going to cancel this thing at the last minute. I already know you bought a costume. And just between us, Gill sounded pretty excited about it. So please, dad. Tell me. What's wrong with wearing the one you already have?"

Nothing. Truth be told, there was nothing inherently "_wrong_" with donning khakis, a hat, a rope, and a whip, and arriving front and center in his living room with a giant smile, a can of 'whoop ass,' and a pocket full of… _ready… _poised somewhere near his hip.

(So to speak.)

But he'd already made up his mind, and he was loathe to change it now. He wanted to knock Gillian's socks off. Wanted her jaw to drop open, and her cheeks to redden at the mere sight of him, and her entire demeanor to turn all flirtatious and fluttery, just because he'd gone so far out on a limb with his costume that the whole damn tree was threatening to topple sideways.

When it became clear that he had no intention of actually answering her, Emily began to pout. She sighed dramatically… tapped one foot against the doorframe… and rolled her eyes so severely that he could practically hear them rattle in their sockets.

(Apparently, she'd gotten her subtlety from him.)

"Patience, Em," he countered. "I'm bloody positive it's here somewhere, yeah? And I know it seems crazy now, but trust me love. Gillian will like the end result. _She'll_ be happy… and then _I'll_ be happy… and that ought to make _you_ happy, since it was your insane little barnyard scheme that got me in this mess in the first place."

Now, if he hadn't been so distracted… and if he hadn't actually been using a broom handle to root around in the overstuffed contents of the top shelf, as he craned his neck for any traces of red that might (or might not) be the elusive duffel bag… then Cal would've probably caught the small flicker of guilt in Emily's voice as she answered him.

"Trust me dad, you have no idea."

It was a comment that could have been – and probably _should have been_ – interpreted a dozen different ways, with the emphasis flickering between "scheme," "insane," and "mess" each time. Meaning that maybe his lovely Emily had been doing even more long-distance scheming than he realized.

But his broom handle nonsense had already paid off, and before he had the chance to care about anything she'd _said_ or _done_ or _schemed_, Cal caught a flash of something tomato colored on the left side of the top shelf, and he quickly sent everything around it toppling to the ground.

_Bull's-eye_.

The duffel bag landed with a small 'whooshing' noise, atop a small pile of paperwork, magazines, and mismatched gloves. And before he'd gotten the chance to say a single word, Emily's youth-filled reflexes kicked into gear and she grabbed the handle with a victorious little gleam in her eye.

Color him _not at all_ surprised.

"So this is it then," she said, stating the obvious and looking very much like the cat who'd eaten the canary as she did so. "I must say, dad, I'm totally stumped. I can't think of a single item of clothing that you'd be this motivated to find… let alone wear… let alone actually look _like that_, at the idea that I'm about to open this bag right now and peek inside."

Oh, he didn't want to take the bait. But it was just dangling there on the proverbial line, bobbing and weaving between them, and Cal knew that his very persistent daughter would not let it drop without trying to play up his semi-crazy state for all it was worth. So… he took it.

(The bait, that is. Not the bag.)

"Alright, Em," he sighed. "You win. I'll bite. Ready, then? Here goes: "Look like _what_?"

She grinned victoriously, just as he'd known she would. "Like you're torn between wanting to run over and model it for Gillian in private – heaven help us all – or, hide this one under your bed and wear the store-bought costume until all but the last 10 minutes of that party, and then – _and only then_ – come out dressed in whatever's in this bag."

Oh, she was good. She was very bloody good. And coming from the perspective of someone who didn't actually know that his relationship with Gillian had already turned… non-platonic… she was also very accurate. Because _of course_ she saw his hesitation as doubt about the costume choice, rather than doubt about how in the world he'd actually _explain_ his costume choice.

There would be stares, he knew. Lots and lots _and lots_ of stares. _And_, quite possibly, a few snickering laughs, too. In fact, he could already hear himself repeating the phrase _"Oi! It's not a skirt!" _until it was permanently engrained in everyone's mind. But never let it be said that Cal Lightman shied away from a challenge, or from the chance to hear Gillian Foster call him sexy yet again.

Because she would. He _knew_ she would. And the anticipation was about to bloody well kill him.

_Yes, that's right_: To hell with awkward explanations. He was positively _itching_ to face the consequences of costume number two.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: A quick thank you for sticking with me through this story, guys! Doing two at once has been fun, but much more time consuming than I'd expected. I promise I'll try to keep the updates coming quickly! Hope you all enjoy!**

**(PS-I use the phrase 'The Night of Five Times' in this chapter. Thank you, Lysa, for coining that term!)**

* * *

"I'm telling you, dad. It's _weird_."

By mid-morning, after eagerly volunteering for the position as Cal's sous-chef and learning that he _was_, in fact, "dead set" on kicking off the evening's festivities dressed as an athlete who'd come straight from the Scottish Highland Games (_kilt mandatory_), Emily's semi-permanent expression had morphed into one of… _apprehension_. Roughly every hour or so, her nose would wrinkle up, and her brows would draw together, and she'd give him this sympathetic little half-shrug, as if to say, "_Oh, you poor, poor, insane little man_."

Trouble was, he'd grown impervious to that look sometime around hour number three, and since then – when she'd begun to rotate the last word in her sentence for a handful of _other_ adjectives, just to inject a little flavor into her argument – he'd responded in one of only two ways: silence or sarcasm.

(No major shock there.)

She'd switched it from '_crazy_,' to '_strange_,' to '_unconventional_,' to '_avant_-_garde'_ (that one was his favorite), before finally cycling back to the cornerstone of her pitch: '_weird_.' Color him completely unfazed by the whole literary lot, yeah? After all, a man who'd built his entire career around behavioral science, body language, and nonverbal communication was well-versed in the art of being called – for lack of a more creative term – a total _nutter_. At least his Emily had the grace to do it with class.

Sighing heavily as she helped him prep a few different types of hors d'oeuvres, Emily tried to feign nonchalance. She chopped and diced and peeled her way through the ingredients he'd given her… pretended not notice his obsessive clockwatching… and patiently waited for him to reply. She was confused. Curious. _And_ – last but not least – slightly disturbed by the whole idea. After all, kilts weren't exactly commonplace in the US, and Cal knew that seeing him dressed in one was likely not near the top of her teenage bucket list.

And really… he couldn't exactly blame her for questioning his sanity. After spending the last nine _years_ seemingly ignorant to his feelings for Gillian, and then the last seven _months_ all-too aware that they existed but idiotically determined to ignore them anyway, it _did_ seem rather odd to go cold turkey on the 'hard to get' routine, and then play host to an entire roomful of human lie detectors while dressed sans pants.

But then again, Emily was still in the dark as to just how far forward his relationship with Gillian had moved in the last twenty-four hours: the three magic words had already been said, sexual gratification had been found (six times!), and everything felt utterly fantastic. And he thought it was a bit funny, that for as much frenetic energy as he'd had in the preceding months, weeks, and days… now that zero hour was almost upon them, he felt perfectly relaxed.

Bring on the kilt, yeah? And the semi-shocked looks that bloody well screamed, _'Have your tranquilizers handy, folks, because Lightman finally lost his mind. He _does_ have nice knees, though. Who would've thought_?'

He. Was. Ready.

Back to his original point, though. _Every single time_ Emily accused him of being weird, or strange, or avant-garde, he either responded with silence or sarcasm. And as for the _latest_ round… sarcasm won.

"I mean, I _know_ it's supposed to be a costume party," she continued. "And I _know_ everyone else will be there dressed as goblins, or witches, or superheroes, or something. They'll look bizarre, too. But I'm just not sure that voluntarily wearing the boy version of a skirt…

(_See? There it was already. Visions of using the phrase, "_Oi! It's not a skirt_!" were still swimming through his head ad nauseum.)_

"… is really your best opening move."

Opting to give Emily his undivided attention, just so that the weight of his counterpoint hit her with all of its sarcasm-fueled guns blazing, Cal quirked a single eyebrow and composed his best Lightman stare. "Says the girl who spent quite a bit of time lecturing me on the mating habits of barnyard foul, and then trying to apply their logic to my sex life," he quipped. Dryly. "So as far as "weird" things go, Em, I'd say you've rather got the market cornered."

If Emily hadn't expected to hear that type of response, then clearly – _clearly_ – she'd already begun to lose touch with reality since moving to California. After all, Cal was nothing if not a smartass on a normal day. Back him into a proverbial corner, add in a wisecrack or three about his masculinity, and _voila_! An instant recipe for even greater smartass-ery was born: new and improved, with just a _hint_ of egomaniacal charm thrown in for good measure.

Besides… they both knew he made a very valid point as far as the chicken thing went. Her tidbitting scenarios and his frantic kilt searches were rather tied for the lead spot on the Lightman Family Scale of Ridiculousness. And to that end, hearing the words "sex life" shoot out of his mouth while they calmly prepared gigantic platters of spring rolls _should not_ have triggered any reaction _other_ than mild disgust. Because she _was_, you know, _normal_. And of all the things that a girl could never _un_-hear, anything related to her father's proclivity for … horizontal tangos… was definitely at the top of the list.

In giant, bold letters.

And typed with fluorescent ink.

So, he smirked triumphantly, while Emily's nose wrinkled up in a small display of that aforementioned disgust, and then he turned proactive to make a final few points. Just because he _could_.

"Just for the record, though, I _do_ appreciate all those months of pep talks and nudges," he said. "Probably more than you'll ever know, yeah? Not to mention that warning about plonkerish, would-be suitors named Tom or Tony, who had their sights locked on making a play for my Gillian. But _trust me_, love. I know what I'm doing. So here's the deal: _I'll_ promise to spare _you_ the pain of hearing me speak the phrase 'sex life' from here on out, so long as _you _promise to lay off the whole '_My father is a total wacko_,' thing. You win. I win. Sounds like a brilliant arrangement to me. And as far as the rest of it goes, my costume…"

(_…insert overdramatic pause for emphasis here…_)

"…is _not_ a skirt."

Monologue completed, Cal gave his daughter a quick side hug and then went back to prepping the party food. He was expecting Gillian to arrive at any moment to begin work on the decorations, and from his chosen vantage point near the window, he was sure to catch sight of her car in the driveway as soon as it pulled through. At which point Emily would receive a Level Ten Death Glare as a warning _not_ to spill the beans about his costume, least he need to do something for payback himself. After all, he was still in the dark as to what Gillian would be wearing – aside from the fact that it was perfect, appropriate, and smile-inducing, of course. So it seemed only fair to keep her a bit clueless as well.

And besides, after following up their now infamous 'Night of Five Times' with far too many hours of abstinence for his liking, he was well in the mood for a bit of… teasing. She'd decorate and drop clever hints... he'd cook and try to put all the pieces together, while dropping little clues of his own... and come evening, they'd both be so worked up that there'd be little need for small talk, and a rather large need for privacy.

(And possibly soundproof walls.)

A few beats later – after taking a large swig of ice water and scanning the driveway for the sixteenth time – Cal's silent (and distraction filled) musings were interrupted by a sound he knew all-too well: gloating. Or rather, _Emily's_ gloating. It had a rather distinct flavor about it; one that walked the fine line between humor and insult without ever falling sideways onto either one. Bit of an art, really. She'd no doubt learned it from him.

Cue one overly dramatic sigh, followed by a round of giggling and a single quirked eyebrow. All hers. Not his. _Gloat, gloat. _

"Tell me, dad," she started. While grinning. And looking like a veritable _personification_ of a canary-swallowing cat. "Do you even _realize_ what you just said? Or have you gotten so much practice in denying your feelings all these years, that the same level of denial has now begun to take over your speech patterns, too?"

Cal blinked at her.

Then stared.

And then blinked again.

Because honestly? He had no bloody clue as to what she was referring. None at all. And up until ninety seconds ago (give or take ten), the only thoughts he'd entertained had involved the memories of that bloody fantastic Five Time night, a mental image of what Gillian's mystery costume might look like when crumpled into a ball on his bedroom floor, and – last but not least – what he'd inevitably 'read' from her facial expression as soon as she realized that he _had_, in fact, taken every last one of her desires into consideration when creating his… outfit.

Athletic? _Check_. Leg baring? _Check, check_. Visible ink-age? _Absolutely_. All of which meant that come party time… the lovely Doctor Foster wouldn't know what hit her.

But the key word in all of that had been "thoughts." As in silent. And private. And closely guarded. So unless he'd actually had some sort of massive 'open-mouth-insert-foot' catastrophe with his daydreams, then he didn't understand how Emily had found a reason to gloat.

It was bloody unnerving.

Never one to readily admit when he was rattled, though, Cal opted for well-composed ignorance rather than bumbling anxiety. "As my stand in sous-chef, s'pose you might let me plead the fifth and just _tell_ me what you think you heard? Direct approach, and all that. Bit of a time crunch on my hands at the moment, Em."

Cue Emily's widening grin in_ three… two… one…_

"You said Gillian was yours," she explained. Happily. "And you used the words 'my Gillian,' like it was the most natural thing you've ever said."

_Oh_.

Well, then.

So long as it was _that_, and not something vulgar, Cal's next move leaned _toward_ coy agreement and _away_ from embarrassed bumbling. Because… _see_, it actually _was_ one of the most natural things he'd ever said. Right up there with 'I love you.' And while a big part of him wanted to tell Emily that her chicken-logic scheme had already worked – that he and Gillian were finally together, and happy, and blissfully in love – in the end, he settled for a small compromise and decided to let her find out later. At the party.

Right along with everyone else.

Shrugging nonchalantly as he caught sight of Gillian's car pulling into the driveway, Cal simply stated the obvious. "It _does_ sound really bloody good to finally say that out loud, yeah? _My Gillian_. Sounds rather… perfect. And as far as I'm concerned, Em, it's high time I said it more often."

* * *

**A/N: Stay tuned, guys. In the next chapter, Cal and Gill will find out that sweet little Emily Lightman has just played them both. That's right: _both_. And I promise... Gillian's costume will soon be revealed. :) **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Just wanted to leave a quick note about the rating for this chapter. It's strong T for a portion, but doesn't cross into M. Also, bunches of thanks for the feedback on this! I always fall behind with replying to everyone, but please understand how much I appreciate the comments and support. So glad you're enjoying the story! And now... on with chapter 11. :)**

* * *

The garment bag Gillian had chosen was completely opaque and nearly as tall as she was. Which meant that despite Cal's best attempt to conjure up x-ray vision that pierced thick cloth, he couldn't see a sodding thing. Beautiful woman… beautiful smile… tiny little "hello" wave sent from her spot in the driveway to his spot at the window… but not even so much as a tiny little _peek_ at her costume.

Sneaky, she was.

But truth be told, he wasn't any better. His kilt, shirt, and boots had been carefully placed in the back of his bedroom closet _behind_ the Indiana Jones gear, just in case she got curious and started snooping around sometime between now and the unofficial "get ready" time. Which – thanks to the birth of Emily's _latest_ bright idea – was happening at his house, not Gillian's. Lord give him strength.

In other words… on a day when his body was still enjoying its post-'Night of Five Times' high (complete with giddiness, dopey laughter, and heightened sensitivity to all things "Foster"), he was now set to spend a massive number of hours in Gillian's presence but _without_ the ability to act on any of his long buried... _instincts_.

Meaning that _she'd_ decorate while _he_ cooked. _He'd_ make jokes about their staff, while _she_ perfected that coy, coquettish grin he loved so bloody much. And _then_ – when Emily finally began to nag both of them to hurry up and get changed, lest the guests arrive early and catch them in 'everyday' gear – his lovely Gillian would likely lock herself in the en suite to get naked and soapy in his bathtub while he took a _cold_ shower _many rooms away_. Frustrations would run high… hands would grow twitchy… and he'd turn red as a tomato when Gillian shyly reminded him that _yes_, they needed to wait until all the guests had gone home AND Emily had flown back to Berkley, and _no_, they really could _not_ lock themselves in his walk-in closet for a quick shag, because they tended to be overly… _you know_… enthusiastic. Thin walls and ceilings be damned.

So.

Under those circumstances, the best Cal could hope for was that Emily would need to make a quick run to the store, or the mall, or the gas station, or _anywhere_ that gave them a thirty minute window of "free" time, just so he could find an opportunity to kiss Gillian properly. Lots of tongue… a few nips along her throat, concentrated in that one little spot that drove her completely mad and made her sigh his name on a breathless moan… _oh_, he could hardly wait.

Now, if he'd been paying a bit _more_ attention to his surroundings, and a little _less_ attention to the woman who was slowly making her way towards the door, then he probably would've heard Emily the _first_ time she called his name.

Or the second.

Or at the very least, the _third_.

But by the time Gillian had turned the corner and gone briefly out of sight, and the blood began to flow north of his waistline once again, Emily was on her fourth round of "_Dad_!" and looking for all the world like a parent who'd just caught their child with his or her hand in the cookie jar. Only in their case, the cookie jar was a daydream… Cal's hand wasn't anywhere _near_ its preferred target… and Emily was practically in tears trying to choke back her laughter, as she watched the entire scene unfold and kept her jokes to herself.

Thank heavens for small favors.

True to form, though, Emily couldn't reign in the commentary for very long. Her silence lasted two minutes, at best, and _just_ as he grasped the doorknob… _just_ as he moved to greet Gillian, but before she'd actually come within earshot… Emily couldn't help but make a few last-minute cracks at his total lack of subtlety.

(Color him completely unsurprised.)

"For whatever it's worth," she started. "I just saw a _lifetime's_ worth of TMI flash across your face, there. So unless you want everyone at this party to 'out' your feelings for Gillian before you get a chance to tell her yourself, then trust me dad. _Trust me._ Stop being a chicken, and start speaking with your words. You love her, and you need to tell her. _Today_. But please, for the love of all that is holy in this world… as long as I'm still standing in the same zip code with the both of you, then quit it with X-rated daydreams. Or else I'll be in therapy until I'm thirty-five. Deal?"

* * *

Forty-five minutes.

_That's_ how long Emily had lasted, before the decorating and cooking and general flirting that filled the first floor of Casa de Lightman was enough to make her invent the world's stupidest excuse ('_I… _uh_… just ran out of clean clothes this morning, and I'm… _uh_… going to go buy some new ones_'), snag the keys to Cal's Prius, and hightail it out the front door faster than anyone could've said "tidbitting."

Ridiculous, it was. Both in theory, and in practice. She'd flown in for the weekend – as in, a mere _two short days_ – with a giant, overstuffed suitcase that no doubt _doubled_ her weight, and held (_he assumed_) somewhere near thirty-six different outfits, eight pairs of shoes, three different Halloween costumes, enough accessories to open her own boutique, and at least two different bathrobes: one warm and fuzzy, in case her childhood bedroom was too cold, and one cute and trendy, in case any of her hometown friends opted to tag along as a 'Plus One.'

A light packer, Emily was not. Never had been, never would be, case closed.

The real truth – which neither Cal nor Gillian had any trouble reading – was that she found it next to bloody impossible to stay in the same building with them and not blow her father's cover.

_Or rather…_

She found it next to bloody impossible to stay in the same building with them and not blow what she still _assumed to be_ her father's cover.

Astute though she often was, it seemed that Emily had grown so accustomed to pushing him toward a relationship with Gillian that she completely missed those little nuances that would've told her – if only she'd seen them – that they'd already leapfrogged past silly chicken-based rituals and all things "first base," and landed smack in the middle of the full blown, head-over-heels sort of happiness that was almost impossible to contain.

Hence, the pre-lunchtime Prius hijacking. The girl needed to do _something_ to save her sanity, right? Because obviously… whatever unspoken "thing" that was building between Cal and Gillian in daylight hours was only going to get _worse_ as the party approached. And it wasn't as though they were _trying_ to behave like teenagers, mind you. It's just that a decade's worth of sexual tension didn't resolve itself completely in a matter of days, no matter how many rounds of… practice… they'd gotten to experience on night number one. The number could've been fifty rather than five, and Cal still would've wanted her. Badly. The only question was…

Which one of them would cave first?

As luck would have it, the Prius had barely gotten out of sight when Cal got his answer. Gillian approached casually, walking in stops and starts throughout the living room as she pretended to keep her entire focus on the decorating and away from his apron-clad frame. But he knew better. Her body language practically shouted her true intentions, and when she finally strolled into the kitchen – with orange and black streamers still in her hands – he wasn't even a bit surprised.

They stayed silent for just a moment, testing the waters with proximity rather than spoken word. But when Cal finally turned to face her fully, Gillian tossed him a mischievous grin – the kind that lit up her entire face in a microsecond, and made him all-too aware of how much time they'd wasted – he was _gone_. Her expression was a seamless mix of _simplicity_ and _romance_ and _spontaneity_ and _love_, and all he wanted to do was find a way to make it permanent.

As in, _'till death do us part'_ permanent.

That particular thought was completely unbidden, though, and the weight of it turned his throat dry and scratchy as he fumbled for something to _say_. He wanted to touch her, but his hands were covered in a half-dozen messy ingredients, and she'd already ditched the decorations in order to unbutton her sweater, and all he could focus on was the fact that she smelled incredible. The scent was sweet and sugary – like vanilla and blackberries, with just the tiniest _hint_ of honey in the background, and it made him want to _lick_ –

Just then, as that very specific word ("_lick_") wafted through his subconscious, Cal watched Gillian's grin turn smug – almost as though she'd just _seen_, or _heard_, or _read_ something that he hadn't intended to reveal. And in hindsight, maybe he should have wondered what triggered it. The feel of her fingertips landing on his chest stopped those thoughts, though, and in their place came the stupid realization that she didn't seem to care to _care_ whether or not his hands were coated in bread crumbs. Or egg yolk. Or raw meat. She simply crooked a single finger under his chin… deliberately turned his face so her lips were aimed straight toward his ear… and then descended on it with painstaking patience.

Her breath grazed the shell, as the tip of her tongue flicked out to trail a warm, wet path along its curve. And trust him… if it wouldn't have broken every health code in the entire DC area and risked giving both of them salmonella, Cal would've had her pressed up against the center island and out of her pants in a matter of seconds. He truly was _that_ aroused.

Trust Gillian to know it, too – _and_ to use it to her advantage. Because as luck would have it… she was as good at this game as he was.

(Possibly even better.)

"Aye, aye," she said softly. And flirtatiously. As if the use of one of _his_ traditional phrases gave _her_ this tiny little sexual thrill. Which in turn gave him a thrill, just because it was Gillian, yeah? And she was… brilliant.

"It's kind of amazing to see how far we've come in less than forty-eight hours," she continued, breathing lightly into his ear and using the low tones in her voice to emphasize one very specific word. _Come_. Jesus, even in an innocent connotation, she made it sound… naughty. And promising. And he could hardly _wait_ until nightfall.

"You and I hadn't even shared a real kiss as of two days ago, and now look at us: standing in your kitchen, up to our elbows in hors d'oeuvres and decorations… and within the first ten minutes we're alone together, you start throwing around words like "lick." So tell me, Cal: should I take that as a challenge?"

Completely and totally puzzled – and so aroused he could barely stand upright – Cal tipped his head and studied Gillian from a sideways perspective. He liked a challenge just as much as the next guy (especially when it involved sexual undertones), but trust him, he had no bloody idea where she'd ever gotten the idea that he said…

_Oh_.

Scratch that.

Trust him to flip the inner monologue switch to "full volume" rather than "silent," and verbally broadcast his thoughts about vanilla, and honey, and all the places he wanted to… taste. Kind of like an X-rated version of 'I've got a secret,' except that it wasn't really a secret at all, anymore.

Thank God.

_So_, rather than cave under the pressure and give Gillian what she wanted – _which_, he assumed, was a repeat performance of just how enthusiastically his tongue could behave – Cal played to his other strengths: stubbornness, smartassery, and sexual innuendo.

_Challenge accepted._

He stepped away from his work area and washed his hands… he crossed to the window, and drew the curtains closed… and lastly, he double checked the locks on the rear door, just to ensure they wouldn't have any unexpected visitors. And all the while, the heat of Gillian's stare pierced through his skin and into his groin, and he actually began to _ache_ inside.

_(… cue thickened accent in t-minus three…two… one…)_

"A challenge, love?" he started, parroting her words, just because he knew it would up the ante. "Sounded more like a promise to me, yeah? That is… unless you want to _make_ it a challenge."

Just as Gillian had done moments earlier, Cal allowed his voice to linger over certain words as he expertly studied what effect, if any, their sounds had on her… _enthusiasm_. And a beat later – when her hands squeezed against his hips, and she pulled him against her pelvis, hard and fast – Cal knew she was battling an ache of her own.

She groaned. He smiled.

She kissed his neck. He fought for breath, and fisted his fingers against her upper thighs.

And somewhere in the background – as his hands frantically tugged her shirt up and off, while hers worked his trousers with purpose and desperation – a common goal began to make itself known: satisfaction.

Cal dropped gentle kisses along the column of her throat, then pulled back long enough to study her eyes. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" he asked. "Or how glad I am that one of us was finally brave enough to make that first move?"

And really, he wasn't looking to have a full conversation. Not there. In the kitchen. When _her back_ had just collided with the wall, and _his hands_ were sliding down her thighs, eagerly awaiting the moment when he'd lift them _up_ around his waist, and drive every last ounce of himself into her welcoming heat.

He wasn't thinking, he was feeling. Everything. And the very last thing he expected in that moment was for Gillian to say anything beyond '_I love you_,' or '_I want you_.'

But she did. She most _definitely_ did.

She said…

(…_wait for it_…)

"Do you have any idea how glad _I am_ that you didn't take Wallowski up on her offer last month?"

Momentarily stunned, Cal took a deep breath. Then another. And then a third, just for good measure. He tried to ignore the oppressively comical sound of _crickets_ that were chirping in the background, as he stood with his hands under Gillian's thighs, and his pants halfway to the ground, and his face contorting into a handful of different emotions – from confusion, to dumbfounded humor, to suspicion, and back to confusion again – as he tried to find his mental footing.

_Wallowski_.

No, he could not have been more "lost" if Gillian had suddenly gone fluent in Mandarin Chinese, and opted to speak to him in that language, rather than in English.

_Question Number One_: Why had that name entered their conversation at all, let alone when they were mere moments away from making love against the kitchen wall?

And _Question Number Two_: What had Gillian meant by the phrase "_take Wallowski up on her offer last month_?" Unless he'd entered some sort insane loophole or Twilight Zone episode, then trust him; there had been no offer of any kind – either spoken or implied. And besides, he hadn't seen, phoned, texted, emailed, thought about, or interacted with Sharon Wallowski in _any way at all_ for a full six months.

Which meant that either Gillian had gotten the cosmic signals very, _very_ crossed, or… someone had intentionally misinformed her.

So, Cal took a fourth deep breath and gently disentangled himself from Gillian's thighs. And then he temporarily shelved all thoughts of sex in favor of something entirely different: conversation. Trouble was, he was so utterly and completely _thrown_ by what she said, that the only word (singular) coming out of his mouth was broken and bumbling, and the pitiful sound of it made him feel like a fool.

"Wh… what?" he stuttered. Loudly. No fewer than three consecutive times, just because it seemed like the best place to start.

Leave it to Gillian, though, to be totally composed in the face of his idiocy. She wasn't stuttering at all. Instead, she was bloody _smiling_ at him, in the way that made him want to rip the rest of her clothing off and take her, right there against the wall… or on the table… _or hell_, even _under_ the table, so long as they got to do it soon. And it was as though a tiny little war was being fought in his head – with the need for physical contact on one front, battling the need for clarification on the other. But in the end, Cal knew that the giant can of worms labeled '_Sharon Wallowski'_ had the potential to eat away at the foundation they'd just begun to build, and he most definitely did _not_ want that to happen.

"Forgive me if this sounds like a really stupid question love," he tried again, "but it's the only one I can think to ask, thanks to all the buzzing in my ears right now, yeah? So. Here goes. Why in the world would _anyone_ – let alone you – ever think that Wallowski…"

But he only got as far as the name before Gillian's expression turned from playful flirtation to sheepish embarrassment. She blushed and shrugged, and then focused intently on the band of ink around his bicep, rather than look upward to meet his gaze. She looked almost shy.

_(A rather odd turn of events, considering they were both still half naked.)_

Gillian sighed as she anchored her left hand against his hip. "I promised her I wouldn't say anything," she softly explained. And even though he fully expected to hear more details… none came.

Never let it be said that Cal Lightman struggled with his libido. Because he didn't. Ever. Things being what they currently _were_, however, the only legitimate option he saw was to awkwardly stoop down and haul his pants back up, lest they have this particular conversation looking like half-naked fools. And besides… now that he'd fully embraced his feelings for Gillian, hearing the name "Sharon Wallowski" spoken by anyone was a bit of a mood killer. _Especially_ when it was flanked by the words "take" and "offer."

And so while Gillian continued with the shy routine, Cal fastened his belt and frowned. "You promised who, love? Shazzer?"

Almost instantly, she rolled her eyes. She'd always hated his use of that nickname with the detective, but the term wafted _into_ his head and _out_ of his mouth automatically, before his better judgment could stop it. _Whoops_.

"No," Gillian corrected. She quickly straightened her own clothing as she gave him an unreadable expression that he'd never seen her wear before. "No, it wasn't _her_. I'm talking about Emily. She told me in everything in confidence. And she said she didn't want me to think she was trying to push us together, but that… _well_… she thought I should know you had… options."

_Say what, now?_

Slowly but surely, Cal felt the entire room grow still. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could barely even breathe. Because Gillian had just packed _far_ too much information into those four tiny sentences, and he had no idea what bits of it to focus on first: the part about Emily going behind his back to begin with, or the part where she'd deliberately told Gillian that there were other "options" and then – _then!_ – given her a specific _(and false)_ name to go along with the whole scheme. It was deceitful, and insane, and ridiculously sneaky, and…

_Wait a minute._

With his brows drawn tightly together, Cal raised his hand to his temples and began to massage away the insta-headache that had just sprouted behind his right eye. All of this sounded a little too familiar for his liking (Tom or Tony Wanker came to mind _immediately_), but before he had the chance to actually verbalize his suspicion, Gillian's hands landed on either side of his hips, and she threaded her fingers into his belt loops. Nervous tension, he assumed.

(Lord knows he had some to spare, too.)

"Don't be angry, Cal," she started. "Emily meant well - honestly, she did. She just wanted me to know that since it had already been so long since our divorces and since Claire's funeral, and neither one of us had grown enough nerve to make a move, there _were_, unfortunately, other women in your life who'd decided to make a few moves of their own. Namely Sharon."

_Oh. Bloody. Hell._

Up until forty-five seconds earlier, Cal wouldn't have thought it possible to feel like the world's biggest idiot _and_ the world's most suspicious father _simultaneously_, but clearly… he'd underestimated the evil genius of his daughter. Somehow young Ms. Emily Lightman ranked as a 'black belt' on the cosmic scale of puppet mastery, and he'd never seen it coming _at all_.

In other words… from chicken tidbitting to Gillian's potential love interests, every 'nudge' Emily had given him _was_, apparently, only _part_ of the equation. And while a very real part of him wanted to be angry with her… an even bigger part of him wanted to shake her hand. Because it _was_ rather brilliant, actually – in a totally twisted, socially underhanded, untrustworthy-yet-loving sort of way.

But back to the epicenter of their current problem: those aforementioned "options." The ones that didn't even exist. Best to let her know that, yeah?

Moving swiftly – just to drive home the point that he was very bloody serious – Cal stepped back into Gillian's space and framed her jaw with his palms. Then he tipped her face upwards ever so slightly, until their gazes locked and she could _see_ and _hear_ and _feel_ the truth behind what he was about to tell her. Which was… _drumroll please_…

"The only real option my heart has ever known is you, Gill. _Only you_. Every other woman on the planet pales in comparison. And despite what my well-intentioned evil genius of a daughter has already told you, Sharon Wallowski _did not_ make any sort of offer at all. Not verbally. Not by text, or snail mail, or carrier pigeon, or singing telegram. And even if she _had_, I would've turned her down a million times over, because… _see_… I'm completely in love with _you_."

Point made, Cal gave a sigh of relief and leaned in close enough to rest his forehead against Gillian's. His fingertips swept from her jaw, to her neck, and then finally to her arms, where he grasped both of her hands in his and gently squeezed. And even though there were easily a thousand and one more things he wanted to tell her, he opted for silence instead.

(At least temporarily.)

Gillian, for her part, looked positively stunned. And even though they were already standing chest to chest with barely a sliver of space between them, she pulled herself even tighter against his body. Her eyes were wide and dark, and her cheeks were tinged with just the slightest shade of pink, as if some part of what he'd just told her sounded different in the daylight than it had sounded in her bed.

Finally, just as Cal moved to kiss her lips… Gillian spoke. "So then," she breathed. "Emily lied? She just… invented the whole story, like some kind of crazy little puppet master?"

And though there was definitely room for her to have held a bit of a grudge as far as the deceit went, the predominant emotion in Gillian's voice was curiosity. Not anger. She just wanted to be sure to get the facts straight, before moving on to the next phase of their afternoon.

Dropping light kisses along her cheeks and forehead, Cal grunted in agreement. "That title rather suits her, I'd say. But don't feel bad, love. She did the same thing to me. Invented a story about this tosser named Tom or Tony who'd already made a play for you, just so I'd understand that you had options of your own. And that if I didn't get off my pathetically slow arse and tell you how I felt, then I was likely to lose you to someone else. Honestly… I'm not sure whether we should thank her, or come up with some sort of embarrassing revenge-based spectacle to show her that we are _not_, in fact, chickens, and that we _do_ know what we're doing. So I'll leave the ball in your court as far as that decision goes, love: embarrassment, sincerity, or a bit of both. It's entirely your call."

_Three… two… one…_

While Cal had no way to have accurately predicted the reaction his short speech would cause, the very _last_ thing he expected to hear was laughter. _As in_, the full on, stomach clenching, tears-in-your-eyes sort of laughter that caused a person's breath to catch in their throat, and their face to turn tomato red, and their nose to make crazy barnyard noises. But. _That_ type of laughter is exactly what Gillian gave him.

Color him entirely _baffled_, yeah?

Granted, she _did_ look pretty cute when she laughed – he loved the way her eyes sparkled when she was happy – but still. Feeling like he was standing on the _outside_ of an inside joke was a pretty lonely experience, to say the least.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long for an explanation. It was maybe two minutes, at most, before she finally regained enough composure to make a simple, five word statement: "Funny you should mention chickens," she quipped.

_Oh_, for the love of every feathered barnyard bird who'd ever danced a mating ritual since the dawn of time… _she hadn't._

Had she?

Heaven help him, there was only one way to find out.

With an exasperated sigh and a belly laugh of his own, Cal shook his head ever so slightly and formed the words for a question he never thought he'd ask: "Tell me, Gill. Are you familiar with the word "tidbitting?"

* * *

**A/N: Might be a bit longer than normal before the next update, because my muse is going to turn her attention to "Take the Long Way Home." I promise, though... in chapter 12, Gillian's costume gets revealed. Trust me: you'll like it. :)**


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